FLAPPERS 
AND  PHILOSOPHERS 


BY 

F.  SCOTT  FITZGERALD 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THIS  SIDE  OF  PARADISE  " 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1921 


HEPLACING 


COPYRIGHT,  1020,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  1920 

Reprinted  September,  October,  December,  1920;  De 
cember,  1921.  

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  co. 
COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  THE  SMART  SET  PUBLISHING  CO. 


PRINTED  AT 

THE  SCRIBNER  PRESS 

NEW  YORK,  U.  S.  A. 


TO    ZELDA 


M9Q2260 


CONTENTS 

f  / 

HTHE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE .  3 

THE  ICE  PALACE 49 

HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS 87  •" 

-THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL 124 

BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR 155 

BENEDICTION      .               194 

DALYRIMPLE  GOES  WRONG 219 

THE  FOUR  FISTS 245 


FLAPPERS 
AND  PHILOSOPHERS 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE 

THIS  unlikely  story  begins  on  a  sea  that  was  a  blue 
dream,  as  colorful  as  blue-silk  stockings,  and  be 
neath  a  sky  as  blue  as  the  irises  of  children's  eyes. 
From  the  western  half  of  the  sky  the  sun  was  shy 
ing  little  golden  disks  at  the  sea — if  you  gazed  in 
tently  enough  you  could  see  them  skip  from  wave 
tip  to  wave  tip  until  they  joined  a  broad  collar  of 
golden  coin  that  was  collecting  half  a  mile  out  and 
would  eventually  be  a  dazzling  sunset.  About 
half-way  between  the  Florida  shore  and  the  golden 
collar  a  white  steam-yacht,  very  young  and  grace 
ful,  was  riding  at  anchor  and  under  a  blue-and- 
white  awning  aft  a  yellow-haired  girl  reclined  in  a 
wicker  settee  reading  The  Revolt  of  the  Angels, 
by  Anatole  France. 

She  was  about  nineteen,  slender  and  supple,  with 
a  spoiled  alluring  mouth  and  quick  gray  eyes  full 
of  a  radiant  curiosity.  Her  feet,  stockingless,  and 
adorned  rather  than  clad  in  blue-satin  slippers 
which  swung  nonchalantly  from  her  toes,  were 
perched  on  the  arm  of  a  settee  adjoining  the  one 
she  occupied.  And  as  she  read  she  intermittently 
regaled  herself  by  a  faint  application  to  her  tongue 
of  a  half-lemon  that  she  held  in  her  hand.  The 
other  half,  sucked  dry,  lay  on  the  deck  at  her  feet 


4  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

and  rocked  very  gently  to  and  fro  at  the  almost  im 
perceptible  motion  of  the  tide. 

The  second  half -lemon  was  well-nigh  pulpless  and 
the  golden  collar  had  grown  astonishing  in  width, 
when  suddenly  the  drowsy  silence  which  enveloped 
the  yacht  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  heavy  foot 
steps  and  an  elderly  man  topped  with  orderly  gray 
hair  and  clad  in  a  white-flannel  suit  appeared  at  the 
head  of  the  companionway.  There  he  paused  for  a 
moment  until  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the 
sun,  and  then  seeing  the  girl  under  the  awning  he 
uttered  a  long  even  grunt  of  disapproval. 

If  he  had  intended  thereby  to  obtain  a  rise  of 
any  sort  he  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  The 
girl  calmly  turned  over  two  pages,  turned  back  one, 
raised  the  lemon  mechanically  to  tasting  distance, 
and  then  very  faintly  but  quite  unmistakably 
yawned. 

"Ardita!"  said  the  gray-haired  man  sternly. 

Ardita  uttered  a  small  sound  indicating  nothing. 

"  Ardita ! "  he  repeated.     "  Ardita ! " 

Ardita  raised  the  lemon  languidly,  allowing  three 
words  to  slip  out  before  it  reached  her  tongue. 

"Oh,  shut  up. " 

"Ardita!" 

"What?" 

"Will  you  listen  to  me — or  will  I  have  to  get  a 
servant  to  hold  you  while  I  talk  to  you?" 

The  lemon  descended  slowly  and  scornfully. 

"Put  it  in  writing." 

"Will  you  have  the  decency  to  close  that  abomina- 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  5 

ble  book  and  discard  that  damn  lemon  for  two 
minutes?" 

"Oh,  can't  you  lemme  alone  for  a  second?" 

"Ardita,  I  have  just  received  a  telephone  message 
from  the  shore ' 

"Telephone?"  She  showed  for  the  first  time  a 
faint  interest. 

"Yes,  it  was " 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  interrupted  wonder- 
ingly,  " 'at  they  let  you  run  a  wire  out  here?" 

"Yes,  and  just  now— 

"Won't  other  boats  bump  into  it?" 

"  No.     It's  run  along  the  bottom.    Five  min " 

"  Well,  I'll  be  darned  !  Gosh !  Science  is  golden 
or  something — isn't  it?" 

"Will  you  let  me  say  what  I  started  to?" 

"Shoot!" 

"Well,  it  seems— well,  I  am  up  here—"  He 
paused  and  swallowed  several  times  distractedly. 
"Oh,  yes.  Young  woman,  Colonel  Moreland  has 
called  up  again  to  ask  me  to  be  sure  to  bring  you  in 
to  dinner.  His  son  Toby  has  come  all  the  way 
from  New  York  to  meet  you  and  he's  invited  sev 
eral  other  young  people.  For  the  last  time,  will 
you " 

"No,"  said  Ardita  shortly,  "I  won't.  I  came 
along  on  this  darn  cruise  with  the  one  idea  of  going 
to  Palm  Beach,  and  you  knew  it,  and  I  absolutely 
refuse  to  meet  any  darn  old  colonel  or  any  darn 
young  Toby  or  any  darn  old  young  people  or  to 
set  foot  in  any  other  darn  old  town  in  this  crazy 


6  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

state.     So  you  either  take  me  to  Palm  Beach  or  else 
shut  up  and  go  away." 

"Very  well.  This  is  the  last  straw.  In  your  in 
fatuation  for  this  man — a  man  who  is  notorious  for 
his  excesses,  a  man  your  father  would  not  have  al 
lowed  to  so  much  as  mention  your  name — you  have 
reflected  the  demi-monde  rather  than  the  circles  in 
which  you  have  presumably  grown  up.  From  now 
on " 

"I  know,"  interrupted  Ardita  ironically,  "from 
now  on  you  go  your  way  and  I  go  mine.  I've  heard 
that  story  before.  You  know  I'd  like  nothing  bet 
ter." 

"From  now  on,"  he  announced  grandiloquently, 
"you  are  no  niece  of  mine.  I " 

"O-o-o-oh!"  The  cry  was  wrung  from  Ardita 
with  the  agony  of  a  lost  soul.  "Will  you  stop 
boring  me !  Will  you  go  'way !  Will  you  jump 
overboard  and  drown !  Do  you  want  me  to  throw 
this  book  at  you!" 

"If  you  dare  do  any " 

Smack !  The  Revolt  of  the  Angels  sailed 
through  the  air,  missed  its  target  by  the  length  of 
a  short  nose,  and  bumped  cheerfully  down  the 
companionway. 

The  gray-haired  man  made  an  instinctive  step 
backward  and  then  two  cautious  steps  forward. 
Ardita  jumped  to  her  five  feet  four  and  stared  at 
him  defiantly,  her  gray  eyes  blazing. 

"Keep  off!" 

"How  dare  you  !"  he  cried. 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  7 

"Because  I  darn  please !" 

"You've  grown  unbearable!  Your  disposi- 
tion- 

"  YouVe  made  me  that  way !  No  child  ever  has 
a  bad  disposition  unless  it's  her  family's  fault ! 
Whatever  I  am,  you  did  it." 

Muttering  something  under  his  breath  her  uncle 
turned  and,  walking  forward,  called  in  a  loud  voice 
for  the  launch.  Then  he  returned  to  the  awning, 
where  Ardita  had  again  seated  herself  and  resumed 
her  attention  to  the  lemon. 

"I  am  going  ashore,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  will  be 
out  again  at  nine  o'clock  to-night.  When  I  return 
we  will  start  back  to  New  York,  where  I  shall  turn 
you  over  to  your  aunt  for  the  rest  of  your  natural, 
or  rather  unnatural,  life." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  her,  and  then  all  at 
once  something  hi  the  utter  childishness  of  her 
beauty  seemed  to  puncture  his  anger  like  an  inflated 
tire,  and  render  him  helpless,  uncertain,  utterly 
fatuous. 

"Ardita,"  he  said  not  unkindly,  "I'm  no  fool. 
I've  been  round.  I  know  men.  And,  child,  con 
firmed  libertines  don't  reform  until  they're  tired — 
and  then  they're  not  themselves — they're  husks  of 
themselves. ' '  He  looked  at  her  as  if  expecting  agree 
ment,  but  receiving  no  sight  or  sound  of  it  he  con 
tinued.  "Perhaps  the  man  loves  you — that's  pos 
sible.  He's  loved  many  women  and  he'll  love  many 
more.  Less  than  a  month  ago,  one  month,  Ardita, 
he  was  involved  in  a  notorious  affair  with  that  red- 


8  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

haired  woman,  Mimi  Merril;  promised  to  give  her 
the  diamond  bracelet  that  the  Czar  of  Russia  gave 
his  mother.  You  know — you  read  the  papers." 

"Thrilling  scandals  by  an  anxious  uncle,"  yawned 
Ardita.  "Have  it  filmed.  Wicked  clubman  mak 
ing  eyes  at  virtuous  flapper.  Virtuous  flapper  con 
clusively  vamped  by  his  lurid  past.  Plans  to  meet 
him  at  Palm  Beach.  Foiled  by  anxious  uncle." 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  the  devil  you  want  to 
marry  him?" 

"I'm  sure  I  couldn't  say,"  said  Ardita  shortly. 
"Maybe  because  he's  the  only  man  I  know,  good  or 
bad,  who  has  an  imagination  and  the  courage  of  his 
convictions.  Maybe  it's  to  get  away  from  the 
young  fools  that  spend  their  vacuous  hours  pursu 
ing  me  around  the  country.  But  as  for  the  famous 
Russian  bracelet,  you  can  set  your  mind  at  rest  on 
that  score.  He's  going  to  give  it  to  me  at  Palm 
Beach — if  you'll  show  a  little  intelligence." 

"How  about  the — red-haired  woman?" 

"He  hasn't  seen  her  for  six  months,"  she  said 
angrily.  "Don't  you  suppose  I  have  enough  pride 
to  see  to  that?  Don't  you  know  by  this  time  that 
I  can  do  any  darn  thing  with  any  darn  man  I  want 
to?" 

She  put  her  chin  in  the  air  like  the  statue  of  France 
Aroused,  and  then  spoiled  the  pose  somewhat  by 
raising  the  lemon  for  action. 

"Is  it  the  Russian  bracelet  that  fascinates  you?" 

"No,  I'm  merely  trying  to  give  you  the  sort  of 
argument  that  would  appeal  to  your  intelligence. 
And  I  wish  you'd  go  'way,"  she  said,  her  temper 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  9 

rising  again.  "You  know  I  never  change  my  mind. 
You've  been  boring  me  for  three  days  until  I'm 
about  to  go  crazy.  I  won't  go  ashore !  Won't ! 
Do  you  hear  ?  Won't ! " 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "and  you  won't  go  to  Palm 
Beach  either.  Of  all  the  selfish,  spoiled,  uncon 
trolled,  disagreeable,  impossible  girls  I  have " 

Splush !  The  half-lemon  caught  him  in  the  neck. 
Simultaneously  came  a  hail  from  over  the  side. 

"The  launch  is  ready,  Mr.  Farnam." 

Too  full  of  words  and  rage  to  speak,  Mr.  Farnam 
cast  one  utterly  condemning  glance  at  his  niece 
and,  turning,  ran  swiftly  down  the  ladder. 

II 

Five  o'clock  rolled  down  from  the  sun  ahd 
plumped  soundlessly  into  the  sea.  The  golden 
collar  widened  into  a  glittering  island;  and  a  faint 
breeze  that  had  been  playing  with  the  edges  of  the 
awning  and  swaying  one  of  the  dangling  blue 
slippers  became  suddenly  freighted  with  song.  It 
was  a  chorus  of  men  in  close  harmony  and  in  per 
fect  rhythm  to  an  accompanying  sound  of  oars 
cleaving  the  blue  waters.  Ardita  lifted  her  head 
and  listened. 

"Carrots  and  peas, 
Beans  on  their  knees, 
Pigs  in  the  seas, 

Lucky  fellows ! 
Blow  us  a  breeze, 
Blow  us  a  breeze, 
Blow  us  a  breeze, 

With  your  bellows." 


io  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Ardita's  brow  wrinkled  in  astonishment.  Sitting 
very  still  she  listened  eagerly  as  the  chorus  took  up 
a  second  verse. 

"Onions  and  beans, 
Marshalls  and  Deans, 
Goldbergs  and  Greens 

And  Costellos. 
Blow  us  a  breeze, 
Blow  us  a  breeze, 
Blow  us  a  breeze, 

With  your  bellows. " 

With  an  exclamation  she  tossed  her  book  to  the 
desk,  where  it  sprawled  at  a  straddle,  and  hurried 
to  the  rail.  Fifty  feet  away  a  large  rowboat  was 
approaching  containing  seven  men,  six  of  them  row 
ing  and  one  standing  up  hi  the  stern  keeping  time 
to  their  song  with  an  orchestra  leader's  baton. 

"Oysters  and  rocks, 
Sawdust  and  socks, 
Who  could  make  clocks 
Out  of  cellos?—" 


The  leader's  eyes  suddenly  rested  on  Ardita,  who 
was  leaning  over  the  rail  spellbound  with  curiosity. 
He  made  a  quick  movement  with  his  baton  and  the 
singing  instantly  ceased.  She  saw  that  he  was  the 
only  white  man  hi  the  boat — the  six  rowers  were 
negroes. 

"Narcissus  ahoy !"  he  called  politely. 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  II 

"What's  the  idea  of  all  the  discord?"  demanded 
Ardita  cheerfully.  "Is  this  the  varsity  crew  from 
the  county  nut  farm  ?  " 

By  this  time  the  boat  was  scraping  the  side  of 
the  yacht  and  a  great  hulking  negro  in  the  bow 
turned  round  and  grasped  the  ladder.  Thereupon 
the  leader  left  his  position  in  the  stern  and  before 
Ardita  had  realized  his  intention  he  ran  up  the  lad 
der  and  stood  breathless  before  her  on  the  deck. 

"The  women  and  children  will  be  spared!"  he 
said  briskly.  "All  crying  babies  will  be  immedi 
ately  drowned  and  all  males  put  in  double  irons !" 

Digging  her  hands  excitedly  down  into  the  pockets 
of  her  dress  Ardita  stared  at  him,  speechless  with 
astonishment. 

He  was  a  young  man  with  a  scornful  mouth  and 
the  bright  blue  eyes  of  a  healthy  baby  set  in  a  dark 
sensitive  face.  His  hair  was  pitch  black,  damp 
and  curly — the  hair  of  a  Grecian  statue  gone  bru 
nette.  He  was  trimly  built,  trimly  dressed,  and 
graceful  as  an  agile  quarter-back. 

"Well,  I'll  be  a  son  of  a  gun !"  she  said  dazedly. 

They  eyed  each  other  coolly. 

"Do  you  surrender  the  ship?" 

"Is  this  an  outburst  of  wit?"  demanded  Ardita. 
"Are  you  an  idiot — or  just  being  initiated  to  some 
fraternity?" 

"I  asked  you  if  you  surrendered  the  ship." 

"I  thought  the  country  was  dry,"  said  Ardita 
disdainfully.  "Have  you  been  drinking  finger-nail 
enamel  ?  You  better  get  off  this  yacht ! " 


12  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"What?"  The  young  man's  voice  expressed  in 
credulity. 

"  Get  off  the  yacht !    You  heard  me ! " 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as  if  considering 
what  she  had  said. 

"No,"  said  his  scornful  mouth  slowly;  "no,  I 
won't  get  off  the  yacht.  You  can  get  off  if  you  wish." 

Going  to  the  rail  he  gave  a  curt  command  and  im 
mediately  the  crew  of  the  rowboat  scrambled  up  the 
ladder  and  ranged  themselves  in  line  before  him,  a 
coal-black  and  burly  darky  at  one  end  and  a  minia 
ture  mulatto  of  four  feet  nine  at  the  other.  They 
seemed  to  be  uniformly  dressed  in  some  sort  of  blue 
costume  ornamented  with  dust,  mud,  and  tatters; 
over  the  shoulder  of  each  was  slung  a  small,  heavy- 
looking  white  sack,  and  under  their  arms  they  car 
ried  large  black  cases  apparently  containing  musical 
instruments. 

"'Ten-shun!"  commanded  the  young  man,  snap 
ping  his  own  heels  together  crisply.  "Right  driss  ! 
Front !  Step  out  here,  Babe ! " 

The  smallest  negro  took  a  quick  step  forward  and 
saluted. 

"Yas-suh!" 

"Take  command,  go  down  below,  catch  the  crew 
and  tie  'em  up — all  except  the  engineer.  Bring 
him  up  to  me.  Oh,  and  pile  those  bags  by  the  rail 
there." 

"Yas-suh!" 

Babe  saluted  again  and  wheeling  about  motioned 
for  tfcc  five  others  to  gather  about  him.  Then  after 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  13 

a  short  whispered  consultation  they  all  filed  noise 
lessly  down  the  companionway. 

"Now,"  said  the  young  man  cheerfully  to  Ar- 
dita,  who  had  witnessed  this  last  scene  in  wither 
ing  silence,  "if  you  will  swear  on  your  honor  as  a 
flapper — which  probably  isn't  worth  much — that 
you'll  keep  that  spoiled  little  mouth  of  yours  tight 
shut  for  forty-eight  hours,  you  can  row  yourself 
ashore  in  our  rowboat." 

"Otherwise  what?" 

"Otherwise  you're  going  to  sea  in  a  ship." 

With  a  little  sigh  as  for  a  crisis  well  passed,  the 
young  man  sank  into  the  settee  Ardita  had  lately 
vacated  and  stretched  his  arms  lazily.  The  corners 
of  his  mouth  relaxed  appreciatively  as  he  looked 
round  at  the  rich  striped  awning,  the  polished  brass, 
and  the  luxurious  fittings  of  the  deck.  His  eye  fell 
on  the  book,  and  then  on  the  exhausted  lemon. 

"Hm,"  he  said,  "Stonewall  Jackson  claimed  that 
lemon-juice  cleared  his  head.  Your  head  feel  pretty 
clear?" 

Ardita  disdained  to  answer. 

"Because  inside  of  five  minutes  you'll  have  to 
make  a  clear  decision  whether  it's  go  or  stay." 

He  picked  up  the  book  and  opened  it  curiously. 

"The  Revolt  of  the  Angels.  Sounds  pretty  good. 
French,  eh?"  He  stared  at  her  with  new  interest. 
"You  French?" 

"No." 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Farnam." 


14  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"Farnam  what?" 

"Ardita  Farnam." 

"Well,  Ardita,  no  use  standing  up  there  and  chew 
ing  out  the  insides  of  your  mouth.  You  ought  to 
break  those  nervous  habits  while  you're  young. 
Come  over  here  and  sit  down." 

Ardita  took  a  carved  jade  case  from  her  pocket, 
extracted  a  cigarette  and  lit  it  with  a  conscious 
coolness,  though  she  knew  her  hand  was  trembling 
a  little;  then  she  crossed  over  with  her  supple, 
swinging  walk,  and  sitting  down  in  the  other  settee 
blew  a  mouthful  of  smoke  at  the  awning. 

"You  can't  get  me  off  this  yacht,"  she  said 
steadily;  "and  you  haven't  got  very  much  sense 
if  you  think  you'll  get  far  with  it.  My  uncle'll  have 
wirelesses  zigzagging  all  over  this  ocean  by  half 
past  six." 

"Hm." 

She  looked  quickly  at  his  face,  caught  anxiety 
stamped  there  plainly  in  the  faintest  depression  of 
the  mouth's  corners. 

"It's  all  the  same  to  me,"  she  said,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  "  'Tisn't  my  yacht.  I  don't  mind  going 
for  a  coupla  hours'  cruise.  I'll  even  lend  you  that 
book  so  you'll  have  something  to  read  on  the  rev 
enue  boat  that  takes  you  up  to  Sing  Sing." 

He  laughed  scornfully. 

"If  that's  advice  you  needn't  bother.  This  is 
part  of  a  plan  arranged  before  I  ever  knew  this  yacht 
existed.  If  it  hadn't  been  this  one  it'd  have  been 
the  next  one  we  passed  anchored  along  the  coast." 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  15 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Ardita  suddenly. 
"And  what  are  you?" 

"You've  decided  not  to  go  ashore?" 

"I  never  even  faintly  considered  it." 

"We're  generally  known,"  he  said,  "all  seven  of 
us,  as  Curtis  Carlyle  and  his  Six  Black  Buddies, 
late  of  the  Winter  Garden  and  the  Midnight  Frc^c." 

"You're  singers?" 

"We  were  until  to-day.  At  present,  due  to  those 
white  bags  you  see  there,  we're  fugitives  from  jus 
tice,  and  if  the  reward  offered  for  our  capture  hasn't 
by  this  time  reached  twenty  thousand  dollars  I  miss 
my  guess." 

"What's  in  the  bags?"  asked  Ardita  curiously. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "for  the  present  we'll  call  it- 
mud — Florida  mud." 

Ill 

Within  ten  minutes  after  Curtis  Carlyle's  inter 
view  with  a  very  frightened  engineer  the  yacht  Nar 
cissus  was  under  way,  steaming  south  through  a 
balmy  tropical  twilight.  The  little  mulatto,  Babe, 
who  seemed  to  have  Carlyle's  implicit  cc  ifidence, 
took  full  command  of  the  situation.  Mr.  Farnam's 
valet  and  the  chef,  the  only  member?  of  the  crew  on 
board  except  the  engineer,  having  shown  fight,  were 
now  reconsidering,  strapped  securely  to  their  bunks 
below.  Trombone  Mose,  the  biggest  negro,  was 
set  busy  with  a  can  of  paint  obliterating  the  name 
Narcissus  from  the  bow,  and  substituting  the  name 


1 6  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Hula  Hula,  and  the  others  congregated  aft  and  be 
came  intently  involved  in  a  game  of  craps. 

Having  given  orders  for  a  meal  to  be  prepared 
and  served  on  deck  at  seven-thirty,  Carlyle  rejoined 
Ardita,  and,  sinking  back  into  his  settee,  half  closed 
his  eyes  and  fell  into  a  state  of  profound  abstraction. 

Ardita  scrutinized  him  carefully — and  classed  him 
immediately  as  a  romantic  figure.  He  gave  the 
effect  of  towering  self-confidence  erected  on  a  slight 
foundation — just  under  the  surface  of  each  of  his 
decisions  she  discerned  a  hesitancy  that  was  in  de 
cided  contrast  to  the  arrogant  curl  of  his  lips. 

"He's  not  like  me,"  she  thought.  " There's  a 
difference  somewhere." 

Being  a  supreme  egotist  Ardita  frequently  thought 
about  herself;  never  having  had  her  egotism  dis 
puted  she  did  it  entirely  naturally  and  with  no  de 
traction  from  her  unquestioned  charm.  Though 
she  was  nineteen  she  gave  the  effect  of  a  high- 
spirited  precocious  child,  and  in  the  present  glow  of 
her  youth  and  beauty  all  the  men  and  women  she 
had  known  were  but  driftwood  on  the  ripples  of 
her  temperament.  She  had  met  other  egotists— in 
fact  she  found  that  selfish  people  bored  her  rather 
less  than  unselfish  people — but  as  yet  there  had  not 
been  one  she  had  not  eventually  defeated  and  brought 
to  her  feet. 

But  though  she  recognized  an  egotist  in  the  set 
tee  next  to  her,  she  felt  none  of  that  usual  shutting 
of  doors  in  her  mind  which  meant  clearing  ship  for 
action;  on  the  contrary  her  instinct  told  her  that 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  17 

this  man  was  somehow  completely  pregnable  and 
quite  defenseless.  When  Ardita  defied  convention 
—and  of  late  it  had  been  her  chief  amusement — it 
was  from  an  intense  desire  to  be  herself,  and  she 
felt  that  this  man,  on  the  contrary,  was  preoccupied 
with  his  own  defiance. 

She  was  much  more  interested  in  him  than  she 
was  in  her  own  situation,  which  affected  her  as  the 
prospect  of  a  matinee  might  affect  a  ten-year-old 
child.  She  had  implicit  confidence  in  her  ability  to 
take  care  of  herself  under  any  and  all  circumstances. 

The  night  deepened.  A  pale  new  moon  smiled 
misty-eyed  upon  the  sea,  and  as  the  shore  faded  dimly 
out  and  dark  clouds  were  blown  like  leaves  along 
the  far  horizon  a  great  haze  of  moonshine  suddenly 
bathed  the  yacht  and  spread  an  avenue  of  glittering 
mail  hi  her  swift  path.  From  time  to  time  there 
was  the  bright  flare  of  a  match  as  one  of  them 
lighted  a  cigarette,  but  except  for  the  low  under 
tone  of  the  throbbing  engines  and  the  even  wash 
of  the  waves  about  the  stern  the  yacht  was  quiet  as 
a  dream  boat  star-bound  through  the  heavens. 
Round  them  flowed  the  smell  of  the  night  sea,  bring 
ing  with  it  an  infinite  languor. 

Carlyle  broke  the  silence  at  last. 

"Lucky  girl/'  he  sighed,  "I've  always  wanted  to 
be  rich — and  buy  all  this  beauty." 

Ardita  yawned. 

"I'd  rather  be  you,"  she  said  frankly. 

"You  would — for  about  a  day.  But  you  do  seem 
to  possess  a  lot  of  nerve  for  a  flapper." 


l8  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  that." 

"Beg  your  pardon." 

"As  to  nerve,"  she  continued  slowly,  "it's  my 
one  redeeming  feature.  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything 
in  heaven  or  earth." 

"Hm,  I  am." 

"To  be  afraid,"  said  Ardita,  "a  person  has  either 
to  be  very  great  and  strong — or  else  a  coward.  I'm 
neither."  She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  eager 
ness  crept  into  her  tone.  "But  I  want  to  talk  about 
you.  What  on  earth  have  you  done — and  how  did 
you  do  it?" 

"Why?"  he  demanded  cynically.  "Going  to 
write  a  movie  about  me?" 

"Go  on,"  she  urged.  "Lie  to  me  by  the  moon 
light.  Do  a  fabulous  story." 

A  negro  appeared,  switched  on  a  string  of  small 
lights  under  the  awning,  and  began  setting  the 
wicker  table  for  supper.  And  while  they  ate  cold 
sliced  chicken,  salad,  artichokes,  and  strawberry  jam 
from  the  plentiful  larder  below,  Carlyle  began  to 
talk,  hesitatingly  at  first,  but  eagerly  as  he  saw  she 
was  interested.  Ardita  scarcely  touched  her  food 
as  she  watched  his  dark  young  face — handsome, 
ironic,  faintly  ineffectual. 

He  began  life  as  a  poor  kid  in  a  Tennessee  town, 
he  said,  so  poor  that  his  people  were  the  only  white 
family  in  their  street.  He  never  remembered  any 
white  children — but  there  were  inevitably  a  dozen 
pickaninnies  streaming  in  his  trail,  passionate  ad 
mirers  whom  he  kept  in  tow  by  the  vividness  of  his 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  19 

imagination  and  the  amount  of  trouble  he  was  al 
ways  getting  them  in  and  out  of.  And  it  seemed 
that  this  association  diverted  a  rather  unusual  mu 
sical  gift  into  a  strange  channel. 

There  had  been  a  colored  woman  named  Belle 
Pope  Calhoun  who  played  the  piano  at  parties  given 
for  white  children — nice  white  children  that  would 
have  passed  Curtis  Carlyle  with  a  sniff.  But  the 
ragged  little  "poh  white"  used  to  sit  beside  her 
piano  by  the  hour  and  try  to  get  in  an  alto  with  one 
of  those  kazoos  that  boys  hum  through.  Before  he 
was  thirteen  he  was  picking  up  a  living  teasing  rag 
time  out  of  a  battered  violin  in  little  cafes  round 
Nashville.  Eight  years  later  the  ragtime  craze  hit 
the  country,  and  he  took  six  darkies  on  the  Orpheum 
circuit.  Five  of  them  were  boys  he  had  grown  up 
with;  the  other  was  the  little  mulatto,  Babe  Divine, 
who  was  a  wharf  nigger  round  New  York,  and  long 
before  that  a  plantation  hand  in  Bermuda,  until  he 
stuck  an  eight-inch  stiletto  in  his  master's  back. 
Almost  before  Carlyle  realized  his  good  fortune  he 
was  on  Broadway,  with  offers  of  engagements  on  all 
sides,  and  more  money  than  he  had  ever  dreamed 
of. 

It  was  about  then  that  a  change  began  in  his 
whole  attitude,  a  rather  curious,  embittering  change. 
It  was  when  he  realized  that  he  was  spending  the 
golden  years  of  his  life  gibbering  round  a  stage  with 
a  lot  of  black  men.  His  act  was  good  of  its  kind- 
three  trombones,  three  saxaphones,  and  Carlyle's 
flute — and  it  was  his  own  peculiar  sense  of  rhythm 


20  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

that  made  all  the  difference;  but  he  began  to  grow 
strangely  sensitive  about  it,  began  to  hate  the 
thought  of  appearing,  dreaded  it  from  day  to  day. 

They  were  making  money — each  contract  he 
signed  called  for  more — but  when  he  went  to  man 
agers  and  told  them  that  he  wanted  to  separate 
from  his  sextet  and  go  on  as  a  regular  pianist,  they 
laughed  at  him  and  told  him  he  was  crazy — it  would 
be  an  artistic  suicide.  He  used  to  laugh  afterward 
at  the  phrase  "  artistic  suicide.'7  They  all  used  it. 

Half  a  dozen  times  they  played  at  private  dances 
at  three  thousand  dollars  a  night,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  these  crystallized  all  his  distaste  for  his  mode  of 
livelihood.  They  took  place  in  clubs  and  houses 
that  he  couldn't  have  gone  into  in  the  daytime. 
After  all,  he  was  merely  playing  the  role  of  the  eternal 
monkey,  a  sort  of  sublimated  chorus  man.  He  was 
sick  of  the  very  smell  of  the  theatre,  of  powder  and 
rouge  and  the  chatter  of  the  greenroom,  and  the 
patronizing  approval  of  the  boxes.  He  couldn't 
put  his  heart  into  it  any  more.  The  idea  of  a  slow 
approach  to  the  luxury  of  leisure  drove  him  wild. 
He  was,  of  course,  progressing  toward  it,  but, 
like  a  child,  eating  his  ice-cream  so  slowly  that  he 
couldn't  taste  it  at  all. 

He  wanted  to  have  a  lot  of  money  and  tune,  and 
opportunity  to  read  and  play,  and  the  sort  of  men 
and  women  round  him  that  he  could  never  have — 
the  kind  who,  if  they  thought  of  him  at  all,  would 
have  considered  him  rather  contemptible;  in  short 
he  wanted  all  those  things  which  he  was  beginning 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  21 

to  lump  under  the  general  head  of  aristocracy,  an 
aristocracy  which  it  seemed  almost  any  money 
could  buy  except  money  made  as  he  was  making  it. 
He  was  twenty-five  then,  without  family  or  educa 
tion  or  any  promise  that  he  would  succeed  in  a  busi 
ness  career.  He  began  speculating  wildly,  and  within 
three  weeks  he  had  lost  every  cent  he  had  saved. 

Then  the  war  came.  He  went  to  Plattsburg,  and 
even  there  his  profession  followed  him.  A  brigadier- 
general  called  him  up  to  headquarters  and  told  him 
he  could  serve  the  country  better  as  a  band  leader 
— so  he  spent  the  war  entertaining  celebrities  behind 
the  line  with  a  headquarters  band.  It  was  not  so 
bad — except  that  when  the  infantry  came  limping 
back  from  the  trenches  he  wanted  to  be  one  of  them. 
The  sweat  and  mud  they  wore  seemed  only  one  of 
those  ineffable  symbols  of  aristocracy  that  were 
forever  eluding  him. 

"It  was  the  private  dances  that  did  it.  After  I 
came  back  from  the  war  the  old  routine  started. 
We  had  an  offer  from  a  syndicate  of  Florida  hotels. 
It  was  only  a  question  of  tune  then." 

He  broke  off  and  Ardita  looked  at  him  expect 
antly,  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  about 
it.  I'm  enjoying  it  too  much,  and  I'm  afraid  I'd 
lose  a  little  of  that  enjoyment  if  I  shared  it  with 
any  one  else.  I  want  to  hang  on  to  those  few  breath 
less,  heroic  moments  when  I  stood  out  before  them 
all  and  let  them  know  I  was  more  than  a  damn 
bobbing,  squawking  clown." 


22  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

From  up  forward  came  suddenly  the  low  sound 
of  singing.  The  negroes  had  gathered  together  on 
the  deck  and  their  voices  rose  together  in  a  haunting 
melody  that  soared  in  poignant  harmonics  toward 
the  moon.  And  Ardita  listened  in  enchantment. 

"Oh  down— 

Oh  down, 

Mammy  wanna  take  me  downa  milky  way, 
Oh  down — 

Oh  down, 

Pappy  say  to-morra-a-a-ah ! 
But  mammy  say  to-day, 
Yes — mammy  say  to-day ! " 

Carlyle  sighed  and  was  silent  for  a  moment,  look 
ing  up  at  the  gathered  host  of  stars  blinking  like  arc- 
lights  in  the  warm  sky.  The  negroes'  song  had  died 
away  to  a  plaintive  humming  and  it  seemed  as  if 
minute  by  minute  the  brightness  and  the  great 
silence  were  increasing  until  he  could  almost  hear 
the  midnight  toilet  of  the  mermaids  as  they  combed 
their  silver  dripping  curls  under  the  moon  and  gos 
siped  to  each  other  of  the  fine  wrecks  they  lived  in 
on  the  green  opalescent  avenues  below. 

"You  see,"  said  Carlyle  softly,  "this  is  the  beauty 
I  want.  Beauty  has  got  to  be  astonishing,  astound 
ing — it's  got  to  burst  in  on  you  like  a  dream,  like 
the  exquisite  eyes  of  a  girl." 

He  turned  to  her,  but  she  was  silent. 

"You  see,  don't  you,  Anita — I  mean,  Ardita?" 

Again  she  made  no  answer.  She  had  been  sound 
asleep  for  some  time. 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  23 

IV 

In  the  dense  sun-flooded  noon  of  next  day  a  spot 
in  the  sea  before  them  resolved  casually  into  a 
green-and-gray  islet,  apparently  composed  of  a 
great  granite  cliff  at  its  northern  end  which  slanted 
south  through  a  mile  of  vivid  coppice  and  grass  to 
a  sandy  beach  melting  lazily  into  the  surf.  When 
Ardita,  reading  in  her  favorite  seat,  came  to  the 
last  page  of  The  Revolt  of  the  Angels,  and  slam 
ming  the  book  shut  looked  up  and  saw  it,  she  gave 
a  little  cry  of  delight,  and  called  to  Carlyle,  who  was 
standing  moodily  by  the  rail. 

"Is  this  it?    Is  this  where  you're  going?" 

Carlyle  shrugged  his  shoulders  carelessly. 

"  You've  got  me."  He  raised  his  voice  and  called 
up  to  the  acting  skipper:  "Oh,  Babe,  is  this  your 
island?" 

The  mulatto's  miniature  head  appeared  from 
round  the  corner  of  the  deck-house. 

"Yas-suh!    This  yeah's  it." 

Carlyle  joined  Ardita. 

"Looks  sort  of  sporting,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  agreed ;  "  but  it  doesn't  look  big  enough 
to  be  much  of  a  hiding-place." 

"You  still  putting  your  faith  in  those  wirelesses 
your  uncle  was  going  to  have  zigzagging  round?" 

"No;"  said  Ardita  frankly.  "I'm  all  for  you. 
I'd  really  like  to  see  you  make  a  get-away." 

He  laughed. 

"You're  our  Lady  Luck.     Guess  we'll  have  to 


24  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

keep  you  with  us  as  a  mascot — for  the  present, 
anyway." 

"You  couldn't  very  well  ask  me  to  swim  back/' 
she  said  coolly.  "If  you  do  I'm  going  to  start 
writing  dime  novels  founded  on  that  interminable 
history  of  your  life  you  gave  me  last  night." 

He  flushed  and  stiffened  slightly. 

"I'm  very  sorry  I  bored  you." 

"Oh,  you  didn't — until  just  at  the  end  with  some 
story  about  how  furious  you  were  because  you 
couldn't  dance  with  the  ladies  you  played  music  for." 

He  rose  angrily. 

"You  have  got  a  darn  mean  little  tongue." 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  melting  into  laughter, 
"but  I'm  not  used  to  having  men  regale  me  with 
the  story  of  their  life  ambitions — especially  if  they've 
lived  such  deathly  platonic  lives." 

"  Why  ?    What  do  men  usually  regale  you  with  ?  " 

"Oh,  they  talk  about  me,"  she  yawned.  "They 
tell  me  I'm  the  spirit  of  youth  and  .beauty." 

"What  do  you  teU  them?" 

"Oh,  I  agree  quietly." 

"Does  every  man  you  meet  tell  you  he  loves 
you?"- 

Ardita  nodded. 

"Why  shouldn't  he?  All  life  is  just  a  progres 
sion  toward,  and  then  a  recession  from,  one  phrase 
—'I  love  you.'" 

Carlyle  laughed  and  sat  down. 

"That's  very  true.  That's— that's  not  bad.  Did 
you  make  that  up?" 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  25 

"Yes — or  rather  I  found  it  out.  It  doesn't  mean 
anything  especially.  It's  just  clever." 

"It's  the  sort  of  remark,"  he  said  gravely,  ''that's 
typical  of  your  class." 

"Oh,"  she  interrupted  impatiently,  "don't  start 
that  lecture  on  aristocracy  again!  I  distrust  peo 
ple  who  can  be  intense  at  this  hour  in  the  morning. 
It's  a  mild  form  of  insanity — a  sort  of  breakfast- 
food  jag.  Morning's  the  time  to  sleep,  swim,  and 
be  careless." 

Ten  minutes  later  they  had  swung  round  in  a 
wide  circle  as  if  to  approach  the  island  from  the 
north. 

"There's  a  trick  somewhere,"  commented  Ardita 
thoughtfully.  "He  can't  mean  mst  to  anchor  up 
against  this  cliff." 

They  were  heading  straight  in  now  toward  the 
solid  rock,  which  must  have  been  well  over  a  hun 
dred  feet  tall,  and  not  until  they  were  within  fifty 
yards  of  it  did  Ardita  see  their  objective.  Then 
she  clapped  her  hands  in  delight.  There  was  a 
break  in  the  cliff  entirely  hidden  by  a  curious  over 
lapping  of  rock,  and  through  this  break  the  yacht 
entered  and  very  slowly  traversed  a  narrow  channel 
of  crystal-clear  water  between  high  gray  walls. 
Then  they  were  riding  at  anchor  in  a  miniature 
world  of  green  and  gold,  a  gilded  bay  smooth  as 
glass  and  set  round  with  tiny  palms,  the  whole  re 
sembling  the  mirror  lakes  and  twig  trees  that  chil 
dren  set  up  in  sand  piles. 

"Not  so  darned  bad!"  cried  Carlyle  excitedly. 


26  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

"I  guess  that  little  coon  knows  his  way  round  this 
corner  of  the  Atlantic." 

His  exuberance  was  contagious,  and  Ardita  be 
came  quite  jubilant. 

"It's  an  absolutely  sure-fire  hiding-place!" 

"Lordy,  yes!  It's  the  sort  of  island  you  read 
about." 

The  rowboat  was  lowered  into  the  golden  lake  and 
they  pulled  ashore. 

"Come  on,"  said  Carlyle  as  they  landed  in  the 
slushy  sand,  "we'll  go  exploring." 

The  fringe  of  palms  was  in  turn  ringed  in  by  a 
round  mile  of  flat,  sandy  country.  They  followed 
it  south  and  brushing  through  a  farther  rim  of  tropi 
cal  vegetation  came  out  on  a  pearl-gray  virgin  beach 
where  Ardita  kicked  off  her  brown  golf  shoes — she 
seemed  to  have  permanently  abandoned  stockings 
—and  went  wading.  Then  they  sauntered  back  to 
the  yacht,  where  the  indefatigable  Babe  had  luncheon 
ready  for  them.  He  had  posted  a  lookout  on  the 
high  cliff  to  the  north  to  watch  the  sea  on  both  sides, 
though  he  doubted  if  the  entrance  to  the  cliff  was 
generally  known — he  had  never  even  seen  a  map 
on  which  the  island  was  marked. 

"What's  its  name,"  asked  Ardita— "the  island, 
I  mean?" 

"No  name  'tall,"  chuckled  Babe.  "Reckin  she 
jus'  island,  'at's  all." 

In  the  late  afternoon  they  sat  with  their  backs 
against  great  boulders  on  the  highest  part  of  the 
cliff  and  Carlyle  sketched  for  her  his  vague  plans. 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  27 

He  was  sure  they  were  hot  after  him  by  this  time. 
The  total  proceeds  of  the  coup  he  had  pulled  off, 
and  concerning  which  he  still  refused  to  enlighten 
her,  he  estimated  as  just  under  a  million  dollars. 
He  counted  on  lying  up  here  several  weeks  and  then 
setting  off  southward,  keeping  well  outside  the  usual 
channels  of  travel,  rounding  the  Horn  and  heading 
for  Callao,  in  Peru.  The  details  of  coaling  and  pro 
visioning  he  was  leaving  entirely  to  Babe,  who,  it 
seemed,  had  sailed  these  seas  in  every  capacity 
from  cabin-boy  aboard  a  coffee  trader  to  virtual 
first  mate  on  a  Brazilian  pirate  craft,  whose  skipper 
had  long  since  been  hung. 

"If  he'd  been  white  he'd  have  been  king  of  South 
America  long  ago/'  said  Carlyle  emphatically. 
"When  it  comes  to  intelligence  he  makes  Booker 
T.  Washington  look  like  a  moron.  He's  got  the 
guile  of  every  race  and  nationality  whose  blood  is 
in  his  veins,  and  that's  half  a  dozen  or  I'm  a  liar. 
He  worships  me  because  I'm  the  only  man  in  the 
world  who  can  play  better  ragtime  than  he  can. 
We  used  to  sit  together  on  the  wharfs  down  on  the 
New  York  water-front,  he  with  a  bassoon  and  me 
with  an  oboe,  and  we'd  blend  minor  keys  in  African 
harmonics  a  thousand  years  old  until  the  rats  would 
crawl  up  the  posts  and  sit  round  groaning  and  squeak 
ing  like  dogs  will  in  front  of  a  phonograph." 

Ardita  roared. 

"How  you  can  tell  'em!" 

Carlyle  grinned. 

"I  swear  that's  the  gos " 


28  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"What  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  to  Callao?" 
she  interrupted. 

"Take  ship  for  India.  I  want  to  be  a  rajah.  I 
mean  it.  My  idea  is  to  go  up  into  Afghanistan 
somewhere,  buy  up  a  palace  and  a  reputation,  and 
then  after  about  five  years  appear  in  England  with 
a  foreign  accent  and  a  mysterious  past.  But  India 
first.  Do  you  know,  they  say  that  all  the  gold  in 
the  world  drifts  very  gradually  back  to  India. 
Something  fascinating  about  that  to  me.  And  I 
want  leisure  to  read — an  immense  amount." 

"How  about  after  that?" 

"Then,"  he  answered  defiantly,  "comes  aristoc 
racy.  Laugh  if  you  want  to — but  at  least  you'll 
have  to  admit  that  I  know  what  I  want — which  I 
imagine  is  more  than  you  do." 

"On  the  contrary,"  contradicted  Ardita,  reach 
ing  in  her  pocket  for  her  cigarette  case,  "when  I 
met  you  I  was  in  the  midst  of  a  great  uproar  of  all 
my  friends  and  relatives  because  I  did  know  what 
I  wanted." 

"What  was  it?" 

"A  man." 

He  started. 

"You  mean  you  were  engaged?" 

"After  a  fashion.  If  you  hadn't  come  aboard  I 
had  every  intention  of  slipping  ashore  yesterday 
evening — how  long  ago  it  seems — and  meeting  him 
in  Palm  Beach.  He's  waiting  there  for  me  with  a 
bracelet  that  once  belonged  to  Catharine  of  Russia. 
Now  don't  mutter  anything  about  aristocracy," 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  29 

she  put  in  quickly.  "I  liked  him  simply  because 
he  had  had  an  imagination  and  the  utter  courage 
of  his  convictions." 

"But  your  family  disapproved,  eh?" 

"What  there  is  of  it — only  a  silly  uncle  and  a 
sillier  aunt.  It  seems  he  got  into  some  scandal  with 
a  red-haired  woman  named  Mimi  something — it 
was  frightfully  exaggerated,  he  said,  and  men  don't 
lie  to  me — and  anyway  I  didn't  care  what  he'd 
done;  it -was  the  future  that  counted.  And  I'd 
see  to  that.  When  a  man's  in  love  with  me  he 
doesn't  care  for  other  amusements.  I  told  him  to 
drop  her  like  a  hot  cake,  and  he  did." 

"I  feel  rather  jealous,"  said  Carlyle,  frowning — 
and  then  he  laughed.  "I  guess  I'll  just  keep  you 
along  with  us  until  we  get  to  Callao.  Then  I'll  lend 
you  enough  money  to  get  back  to  the  States.  By 
that  time  you'll  have  had  a  chance  to  think  that 
gentleman  over  a  little  more." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that!"  fired  up  Ardita. 
"I  won't  tolerate  the  parental  attitude  from  any 
body!  Do  you  understand  me?" 

He  chuckled  and  then  stopped,  rather  abashed, 
as  her  cold  anger  seemed  to  fold  him  about  and 
chill  him. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  offered  uncertainly. 
'Oh,  don't  apologize!    I  can't  stand  men  who 
say  'I'm  sorry'  hi  that  manly,  reserved  tone.    Just 
shut  up!" 

A  pause  ensued,  a  pause  which  Carlyle  found 
rather  awkward,  but  which  Ardita  seemed  not  to 


30  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

notice  at  all  as  she  sat  contentedly  enjoying  her 
cigarette  and  gazing  out  at  the  shining  sea.  After 
a  minute  she  crawled  out  on  the  rock  and  lay  with 
her  face  over  the  edge  looking  down.  Carlyle, 
watching  her,  reflected  how  it  seemed  impossible  for 
her  to  assume  an  ungraceful  attitude. 

"Oh,  look!"  she  cried.  "There's  a  lot  of  sort 
jf  ledges  down  there.  Wide  ones  of  all  different 
heights." 

He  joined  her  and  together  they  gazed  down  the 
dizzy  height. 

"Well  go  swimming  to-night !"  she  said  excitedly. 
"By  moonlight." 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  go  in  at  the  beach  on  the 
other  end?" 

"Not  a  chance.  I  like  to  dive.  You  can  use 
my  uncle's  bathing-suit,  only  it'll  fit  you  like  a 
gunny  sack,  because  he's  a  very  flabby  man.  I've 
got  a  one-piece  affair  that's  shocked  the  natives  all 
along  the  Atlantic  coast  from  Biddeford  Pool  to 
St.  Augustine." 

"I  suppose  you're  a  shark." 

"Yes,  I'm  pretty  good.  And  I  look  cute  too. 
A  sculptor  up  at  Rye  last  summer  told  me  my 
calves  were  worth  five  hundred  dollars." 

There  didn't  seem  to  be  any  answer  to  this,  so 
Carlyle  was  silent,  permitting  himself  only  a  dis 
creet  interior  smile. 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  31 


When  the  night  crept  down  in  shadowy  blue  and 
silver  they  threaded  the  shimmering  channel  in  the 
rowboat  and,  tying  it  to  a  jutting  rock,  began  climb 
ing  the  cliff  together.  The  first  shelf  was  ten  feet 
up,  wide,  and  furnishing  a  natural  diving  platform. 
There  they  sat  down  hi  the  bright  moonlight  and 
watched  the  faint  incessant  surge  of  the  waters, 
almost  stilled  now  as  the  tide  set  seaward. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

She  nodded. 

" Always  happy  near  the  sea.  You  know,"  she 
went  on,  "Fve  been  thinking  all  day  that  you  and 
I  are  somewhat  alike.  We're  both  rebels — only  for 
different  reasons.  Two  years  ago,  when  I  was  just 
eighteen,  and  you  were " 

"Twenty-five." 

" — well,  we  were  both  conventional  successes.  I 
was  an  utterly  devastating  debutante  and  you  were 
a  prosperous  musician  just  commissioned  in  the 
army " 

"Gentleman  by  act  of  Congress,"  he  put  in  ironi 
cally. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  we  both  fitted.  If  our  cor 
ners  were  not  rubbed  off  they  were  at  least  pulled 
in.  But  deep  in  us  both  was  something  that  made 
us  require  more  for  happiness.  I  didn't  know  what 
I  wanted.  I  went  from  man  to  man,  restless,  im 
patient,  month  by  month  getting  less  acquiescent 


32  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

and  more  dissatisfied.  I  used  to  sit  sometimes  chew 
ing  at  the  insides  of  my  mouth  and  thinking  I  was 
going  crazy — I  had  a  frightful  sense  of  transiency. 
I  wanted  things  now — now — now!  Here  I  was — 
beautiful — I  am,  aren't  I?" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Carlyle  tentatively. 

Ardita  rose  suddenly. 

"Wait  a  second.  I  want  to  try  this  delightful- 
looking  sea." 

She  walked  to  the  end  of  the  ledge  and  shot  out 
over  the  sea,  doubling  up  in  mid-air  and  then 
straightening  out  and  entering  the  water  straight 
as  a  blade  in  a  perfect  jack-knife  dive. 

In  a  minute  her  voice  floated  up  to  him. 

"You  see,  I  used  to  read  all  day  and  most  of  the 
night.  I  began  to  resent  society " 

"Come  on  up  here,"  he  interrupted.  "What  on 
earth  are  you  doing?" 

"Just  floating  round  on  my  back.  I'll  be  up  in 
a  minute.  Let  me  tell  you.  The  only  thing  I  en 
joyed  was  shocking  people;  wearing  something  quite 
impossible  and  quite  charming  to  a  fancy-dress  party, 
going  round  with  the  fastest  men  hi  New  York,  and 
getting  into  some  of  the  most  hellish  scrapes  imag 
inable." 

The  sounds  of  splashing  mingled  with  h£r  words, 
and  then  he  heard  her  hurried  breathing  as  she  be 
gan  climbing  up  the  side  to  the  ledge. 

"Go  on  in!"  she  called. 

Obediently  he  rose  and  dived.  When  he  emerged, 
dripping,  and  made  the  climb  he  found  that  she  was 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  33 

no  longer  on  the  ledge,  but  after  a  frightened  second 
he  heard  her  light  laughter  from  another  shelf  ten 
feet  up.  There  he  joined  her  and  they  both  sat 
quietly  for  a  moment,  their  arms  clasped  round  their 
knees,  panting  a  little  from  the  climb. 

"The  family  were  wild,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"They  tried  to  marry  me  off.  And  then  when  I'd 
begun  to  feel  that  after  all  life  was  scarcely  worth 
living  I  found  something " — her  eyes  went  skyward 
exultantly — "I  found  something!" 

Carlyle  waited  and  her  words  came  with  a  rush. 

"Courage — just  that;  courage  as  a  rule  of  life, 
and  something  to  cling  to  always.  I  began  to  build 
up  this  enormous  faith  in  myself.  I  began  to  see 
that  in  all  my  idols  in  the  past  some  manifestation 
of  courage  had  unconsciously  been  the  thing  that 
attracted  me.  I  began  separating  courage  from  the 
other  things  of  life.  All  sorts  of  courage — the  beaten, 
bloody  prize-fighter  coming  up  for  more — I  used  to 
make  men  take  me  to  prize-fights;  the  declasse* 
woman  sailing  through  a  nest  of  cats  and  looking 
at  them  as  if  they  were  mud  under  her  feet;  the 
liking  what  you  like  always;  the  utter  disregard  for 
other  people's  opinions — just  to  live  as  I  liked  always 
and  to  die  in  my  own  way —  Did  you  bring  up 
the  cigarettes?" 

He  handed  one  over  and  held  a  match  for  her 
silently. 

"Still,"  Ardita  continued,  "the  men  kept  gather 
ing — old  men  and  young  men,  my  mental  and  physi 
cal  inferiors,  most  of  them,  but  all  intensely  desiring 


34  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

to  have  me — to  own  this  rather  magnificent  proud 
tradition  I'd  built  up  round  me.  Do  you  see?" 

"Sort  of.  You  never  were  beaten  and  you  never 
apologized." 

"Never!" 

She  sprang  to  the  edge,  poised  for  a  moment  like 
a  crucified  figure  against  the  sky;  then  describing 
a  dark  parabola  plunked  without  a  slash  between 
two  silver  ripples  twenty  feet  below. 

Her  voice  floated  up  to  him  again. 

"And  courage  to  me  meant  ploughing  through 
that  dull  gray  mist  that  comes  down  on  life — not 
only  overriding  people  and  circumstances  but  over 
riding  the  bleakness  of  living.  A  sort  of  insistence 
on  the  value  of  life  and  the  worth  of  transient  things." 

She  was  climbing  up  now,  and  at  her  last  words 
her  head,  with  the  damp  yellow  hair  slicked  sym 
metrically  back,  appeared  on  his  level. 

"All  very  well,"  objected  Carlyle.  "You  can 
call  it  courage,  but  your  courage  is  really  built,  after 
all,  on  a  pride  of  birth.  You  were  bred  to  that 
defiant  attitude.  On  my  gray  days  even  courage 
is  one  of  the  things  that's  gray  and  lifeless." 

She  was  sitting  near  the  edge,  hugging  her  knees 
and  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  white  moon;  he  was 
farther  back,  crammed  like  a  grotesque  god  into  a 
niche  in  the  rock. 

"I  don't  want  to  sound  like  Pollyanna,"  she  be 
gan,  "but  you  haven't  grasped  me  yet.  My  cour 
age  is  faith — faith  in  the  eternal  resilience  of  me— 
that  joy'll  come  back,  and  hope  and  spontaneity. 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  35 

And  I  feel  that  till  it  does  I've  got  to  keep  my  lips 
shut  and  my  chin  high,  and  my  eyes  wide — not 
necessarily  any  silly  smiling.  Oh,  I've  been  through 
hell  without  a  whine  quite  often — and  the  female 
hell  is  deadlier  than  the  male." 

"But  supposing,"  suggested  Carlyle,  "that  before 
joy  and  hope  and  all  that  came  back  the  curtain  was 
drawn  on  you  for  good?" 

Ardita  rose,  and  going  to  the  wall  climbed  with 
some  difficulty  to  the  next  ledge,  another  ten  or 
fifteen  feet  above. 

"Why,"  she  called  back,  "then  I'd  have  won!" 

He  edged  out  till  he  could  see  her. 

"Better  not  dive  from  there!  You'll  break  your 
back,"  he  said  quickly. 

She  laughed. 

"Not  I!" 

Slowly  she  spread  her  arms  and  stood  there  swan- 
like,  radiating  a  pride  in  her  young  perfection  that 
lit  a  warm  glow  in  Carlyle's  heart. 

"We're  going  through  the  black  air  with  our 
arms  wide,"  she  called,  "and  our  feet  straight  out 
behind  like  a  dolphin's  tail,  and  we're  going  to  think 
we'll  never  hit  the  silver  down  there  till  suddenly 
it'll  be  all  warm  round  us  and  full  of  little  kissing, 
caressing  waves." 

Then  she  was  in  the  air,  and  Carlyle  involun 
tarily  held  his  breath.  He  had  not  realized  that 
the  dive  was  nearly  forty  feet.  It  seemed  an  eter 
nity  before  he  heard  the  swift  compact  sound  as  she 
reached  the  sea. 


36  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

And  it  was  with  his  glad  sigh  of  relief  when  her 
light  watery  laughter  curled  up  the  side  of  the  cliff 
and  into  his  anxious  ears  that  he  knew  he  loved  her. 


VI 

Time,  having  no  axe  to  grind,  showered  down 
upon  them  three  days  of  afternoons.  When  the 
sun  cleared  the  port-hole  of  Ardita's  cabin  an 
hour  after  dawn  she  rose  cheerily,  donned  her 
bathing-suit,  and  went  up  on  deck.  The  negroes 
would  leave  their  work  when  they  saw  her,  and 
crowd,  chuckling  and  chattering,  to  the  rail  as  she 
floated,  an  agile  minnow,  on  and  under  the  surface 
of  the  clear  water.  Again  in  the  cool  of  the  after 
noon  she  would  swim — and  loll  and  smoke  with 
Carlyle  upon  the  cliff;  or  else  they  would  lie  on 
their  sides  in  the  sands  of  the  southern  beach,  talk 
ing  little,  but  watching  the  day  fade  colorfully  and 
tragically  into  the  infinite  languor  of  a  tropical 
evening. 

And  with  the  long,  sunny  hours  Ardita's  idea  of 
the  episode  as  incidental,  madcap,  a  sprig  of  romance 
in  a  desert  of  reality,  gradually  left  her.  She  dreaded 
the  time  when  he  would  strike  off  southward;  she 
dreaded  all  the  eventualities  that  presented  them 
selves  to  her;  thoughts  were  suddenly  troublesome 
and  decisions  odious.  Had  prayers  found  place  in 
the  pagan  rituals  of  her  soul  she  would  have  asked 
of  life  only  to  be  unmolested  for  a  while,  lazily 
acquiescent  to  the  ready,  naif  flow  of  Carlyle's 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  37 

ideas,  his  vivid  boyish  imagination,  and  the  vein  of 
monomania  that  seemed  to  run  crosswise  through 
his  temperament  and  colored  his  every  action. 

But  this  is  not  a  story  of  two  on  an  island,  nor 
concerned  primarily  with  love  bred  of  isolation.  It 
is  merely  the  presentation  of  two  personalities,  and 
its  idyllic  setting  among  the  palms  of  the  Gulf 
Stream  is  quite  incidental.  Most  of  us  are  content 
o^exist  and  breed  and  nghtTor  the  right JULdpJaojh^ 
aJuLfche  dominant  idea,  the  foredoomed  attempt  to 
control  one's  destiny,  is  reserved  for  the  fortunate 
)T"u;5ortunate  few.  To  me~the  interesting  thing 
ar56Hf~Ardita  is  the  courage  that  will  tarnish  with 
her  beauty  and  youth. 

"Take  me  with  you,"  she  said  late  one  night  as 
they  sat  lazily  in  the  grass  under  the  shadowy 
spreading  palms.  The  negroes  had  brought  ashore 
their  musical  instruments,  and  the  sound  of  weird 
ragtime  was  drifting  softly  over  on  the  warm  breath 
of  the  night.  "I'd  love  to  reappear  in  ten  years  as 
a  fabulously  wealthy  high-caste  Indian  lady,"  she 
continued. 

Carlyle  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"You  can,  you  know." 

She  laughed. 

"Is  it  a  proposal  of  marriage?  Extra!  Ardita 
Farnam  becomes  pirate's  bride.  Society  girl  kid 
napped  by  ragtime  bank  robber." 

"It  wasn't  a  bank." 

"What  was  it?    Why  won't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  don't  want  to  break  down  your  illusions." 


38  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"My  dear  man,  I  have  no  illusions  about  you." 

"I  mean  your  illusions  about  yourself." 

She  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"About  myself!  What  on  earth  have  I  got  to 
do  with  whatever  stray  felonies  you've  commit 
ted?" 

"That  remains  to  be  seen." 

She  reached  over  and  patted  his  hand. 

"Dear  Mr.  Curtis  Carlyle,"  she  said  softly,  "are 
you  in  love  with  me?" 

"As  if  it  mattered." 

"But  it  does — because  I  think  I'm  in  love  with 
you." 

He  looked  at  her  ironically. 

"Thus  swelling  your  January  total  to  half  a 
dozen,"  he  suggested.  "Suppose  I  call  your  bluff 
and  ask  you  to  come  to  India  with  me?" 

"Shall  I?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"We  can  get  married  in  Callao." 

"What  sort  of  life  can  you  offer  me?  I  don't 
mean  that  unkindly,  but  seriously;  what  would 
become  of  me  if  the  people  who  want  that  twenty- 
thousand-dollar  reward  ever  catch  up  with  you?" 

"I  thought  you  weren't  afraid." 

"I  never  am — but  I  won't  throw  my  life  away 
just  to  show  one  man  I'm  not." 

"I  wish  you'd  been  poor.  Just  a  little  poor  girl 
dreaming  over  a  fence  in  a  warm  cow  country." 

"Wouldn't  it  have  been  nice?" 

"I'd    have    enjoyed    astonishing   you — watching 


THE   OFFSHORE  PIRATE  39 

your  eyes  open  on  things.  If  you  only  wanted 
things !  Don't  you  see?" 

"I  know — like  girls  who  stare  into  the  windows 
of  jewelry -stores." 

"Yes — and  want  the  big  oblong  watch  that's 
platinum  and  has  diamonds  all  round  the  edge. 
Only  you'd  decide  it  was  too  expensive  and  choose 
one  of  white  gold  for  a  hundred  dollars.  Then  I'd 
say:  'Expensive?  I  should  say  not!'  And  we'd 
go  into  the  store  and  pretty  soon  the  platinum  one 
would  be  gleaming  on  your  wrist." 

"That  sounds  so  nice  and  vulgar — and  fun,  doesn't 
it?"  murmured  Ardita. 

"Doesn't  it?  Can't  you  see  us  travelling  round 
and  spending  money  right  and  left,  and  being  wor 
shipped  by  bell-boys  and  waiters?  Oh,  blessed  are 
the  simple  rich,  for  they  inherit  the  earth !" 

"I  honestly  wish  we  were  that  way." 

"I  love  you,  Ardita,"  he  said  gently. 

Her  face  lost  its  childish  look  for  a  moment  and 
became  oddly  grave. 

"I  love  to  be  with  you,"  she  said,  "more  than 
with  any  man  I've  ever  met.  And  I  like  your  looks 
and  your  dark  old  hair,  and  the  way  you  go  over 
the  side  of  the  rail  when  we  come  ashore.  In  fact, 
Curtis  Carlyle,  I  like  all  the  things  you  do  when 
you're  perfectly  natural.  I  think  you've  got  nerve, 
and  you  know  how  I  feel  about  that.  Sometimes 
when  you're  around  I've  been  tempted  to  kiss  you 
suddenly  and  tell  you  that  you  were  just  an  ideal 
istic  boy  with  a  lot  of  caste  nonsense  in  his  head. 


40  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Perhaps  if  I  were  just  a  little  bit  older  and  a  little 
more  bored  I'd  go  with  you.  As  it  is,  I  think  I'll 
go  back  and  marry — that  other  man." 

Over  across  the  silver  lake  the  figures  of  the 
negroes  writhed  and  squirmed  in  the  moonlight,  like 
acrobats  who,  having  been  too  long  inactive,  must 
go  through  their  tricks  from  sheer  surplus  energy. 
In  single  file  they  marched,  weaving  in  concentric 
circles,  now  with  their  heads  thrown  back,  now  bent 
over  their  instruments  like  piping  fauns.  And  from 
trombone  and  saxaphone  ceaselessly  whined  a 
blended  melody,  sometimes  riotous  and  jubilant, 
sometimes  haunting  and  plaintive  as  a  death-dance 
from  the  Congo's  heart. 

"Let's  dance!"  cried  Ardita.  "I  can't  sit  still 
with  that  perfect  jazz  going  on." 

Taking  her  hand  he  led  her  out  into  a  broad 
stretch  of  hard  sandy  soil  that  the  moon  flooded 
with  great  splendor.  They  floated  out  like  drifting 
moths  under  the  rich  hazy  light,  and  as  the  fantastic 
symphony  wept  and  exulted  and  wavered  and  de 
spaired  Ardita's  last  sense  of  reality  dropped  away, 
and  she  abandoned  her  imagination  to  the  dreamy 
summer  scents  of  tropical  flowers  and  the  infinite 
starry  spaces  overhead,  feeling  that  if  she  opened 
her  eyes  it  would  be  to  find  herself  dancing  with  a 
ghost  in  a  land  created  by  her  own  fancy. 

"This  is  what  I  should  call  an  exclusive  private 
dance,"  he  whispered. 

"I  feel  quite  mad—but  delightfully  mad !" 

"We're  enchanted.    The  shades  of  unnumbered 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  41 

generations  of  cannibals  are  watching  us  from  high 
up  on  the  side  of  the  cliff  there." 

"And  Fll  bet  the  cannibal  women  are  saying  that 
we  dance  too  close,  and  that  it  was  immodest  of 
me  to  come  without  my  nose-ring." 

They  both  laughed  softly — and  then  their  laughter 
died  as  over  across  the  lake  they  heard  the  trom 
bones  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  and  the  saxa- 
phones  give  a  startled  moan  and  fc.de  out. 

" What's  the  matter?"  caUed  Carlyle. 

After  a  moment's  silence  they  made  out  the  dark 
figure  of  a  man  rounding  the  silver  lake  at  a  run. 
As  he  came  closer  they  saw  it  was  Babe  in  a  state 
of  unusual  excitement.  He  drew  up  before  them  and 
gasped  out  his  news  in  a  breath. 

"Ship  stan'in'  off  sho'  'bout  half  a  mile,  suh. 
Mose,  he  uz  on  watch,  he  say  look's  if  she's  done 
ancho'd." 

"A  ship — what  kind  of  a  ship?"  demanded  Car- 
lyie  anxiously. 

Dismay  was  in  his  voice,  and  Ardita's  heart  gave 
a  sudden  wrench  as  she  saw  his  whole  face  suddenly 
droop. 

"He  say  he  don't  know,  suh." 

"Are  they  landing  a  boat?" 

"No,  suh." 

"We'll  go  up,"  said  Carlyle. 

They  ascended  the  hill  in  silence,  Ardita's  hand 
still  resting  in  Carlyle's  as  it  had  when  they  finished 
dancing.  She  felt  it  clinch  nervously  from  time  to 
time  as  though  he  were  unaware  of  the  contact,  but 


42  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

though  he  hurt  her  she  made  no  attempt  to  remove 
it.  It  seemed  an  hour's  climb  before  they  reached 
the  top  and  crept  cautiously  across  the  silhouetted 
plateau  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  After  one  short  look 
Carlyle  involuntarily  gave  a  little  cry.  It  was  a 
revenue  boat  with  six-inch  guns  mounted  fore  and 
aft. 

"They  know!"  he  said  with  a  short  intake  of 
breath.  "Th?y  know!  They  picked  up  the  trail 
somewhere." 

"Are  you  sure  they  know  about  the  channel? 
They  may  be  only  standing  by  to  take  a  look  at  the 
island  in  the  morning.  From  where  they  are  they 
couldn't  see  the  opening  in  the  cliff." 

"They  could  with  field-glasses,"  he  said  hope 
lessly.  He  looked  at  his  wrist- watch.  "It's  nearly 
two  now.  They  won't  do  anything  until  dawn, 
that's  certain.  Of  course  there's  always  the  faint 
possibility  that  they're  waiting  for  some  other  ship 
to  join;  or  for  a  coaler." 

"I  suppose  we  may  as  well  stay  right  here." 

The  hours  passed  and  they  lay  there  side  by  side, 
very  silently,  their  chins  in  their  hands  like  dream 
ing  children.  In  back  of  them  squatted  the  negroes, 
patient,  resigned,  acquiescent,  announcing  now  and 
then  with  sonorous  snores  that  not  even  the  presence 
of  danger  could  subdue  their  unconquerable  African 
craving  for  sleep. 

Just  before  five  o'clock  Babe  approached  Carlyle. 
There  were  half  a  dozen  rifles  aboard  the  Narcissus 
be  said.  Had  it  been  decided  to  offer  no  resistance  ? 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  43 

A  pretty  good  fight  might  be  made,  he  thought,  if 
they  worked  out  some  plan. 

Carlyle  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"That  isn't  a  Spic  army  out  there,  Babe.  That's 
a  revenue  boat.  It'd  be  like  a  bow  and  arrow  try 
ing  to  fight  a  machine-gun.  If  you  want  to  bury 
those  bags  somewhere  and  take  a  chance  on  recov 
ering  them  later,  go  on  and  do  it.  But  it  won't 
work — they'd  dig  this  island  over  from  one  end  to 
the  other.  It's  a  lost  battle  all  round,  Babe." 

Babe  inclined  his  head  silently  and  turned  away, 
and  Carlyle's  voice  was  husky  as  he  turned  to  Ardita. 

"There's  the  best  friend  I  ever  had.  He'd  die 
for  me,  and  be  proud  to,  if  I'd  let  him." 

"You've  given  up?" 

"I've  no  choice.  Of  course  there's  always  one 
way  out — the  sure  way—but  that  can  wait.  I 
wouldn't  miss  my  trial  for  anything — it'll  be  an 
interesting  experiment  in  notoriety.  '  Miss  Farnam 
testifies  that  the  pirate's  attitude  to  her  was  at  all 
times  that  of  a  gentleman." 

"Don't ! "  she  said.     " I'm  awfully  sorry." 

When  the  color  faded  from  the  sky  and  lustreless 
blue  changed  to  leaden  gray  a  commotion  was  visible 
on  the  ship's  deck,  and  they  made  out  a  group  of 
officers  clad  in  white  duck,  gathered  near  the  rail. 
They  had  field-glasses  in  their  hands  and  were  at 
tentively  examining  the  islet. 

"It's  all  up,"  said  Carlyle  grimly. 

"Damn  !"  whispered  Ardita.  She  felt  tears  gath 
ering  in  her  eyes. 


44  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"We'll  go  back  to  the  yacht,"  he  said.  "I  prefer 
that  to  being  hunted  out  up  here  like  a  'possum." 

Leaving  the  plateau  they  descended  the  hill,  and 
reaching  the  lake  were  rowed  out  to  the  yacht  by 
the  silent  negroes.  Then,  pale  and  weary,  they 
sank  into  the  settees  and  waited. 

Half  an  hour  later  in  the  dim  gray  light  the  nose 
of  the  revenue  boat  appeared  in  the  channel  and 
stopped,  evidently  fearing  that  the  bay  might  be 
too  shallow.  From  the  peaceful  look  of  the  yacht, 
the  man  and  the  girl  in  the  settees,  and  the  negroes 
lounging  curiously  against  the  rail,  they  evidently 
judged  that  there  would  be  no  resistance,  for  two 
boats  were  lowered  casually  over  the  side,  one  con 
taining  an  officer  and  six  bluejackets,  and  the  other, 
four  rowers  and  in  the  stern  two  gray-haired  men 
in  yachting  flannels.  Ardita  and  Carlyle  stood  up, 
and  half  unconsciously  started  toward  each  other. 
Then  he  paused  and  putting  his  hand  suddenly  into 
his  pocket  he  pulled  out  a  round,  glittering  object 
and  held  it  out  to  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 

"I'm  not  positive,  but  I  think  from  the  Russian 
inscription  inside  that  it's  your  promised  bracelet." 

"Where— where  on  earth— 

"It  came  out  of  one  of  those  bags.  You  see, 
Curtis  Carlyle  and  his  Six  Black  Buddies,  in  the 
middle  of  their  performance  in  the  tea-room  of  the 
hotel  at  Palm  Beach,  suddenly  changed  their  in 
struments  for  automatics  and  held  up  the  crowd.  I 
took  this  bracelet  from  a  pretty,  overrouged  woman 
with  red  hair." 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  45 

Ardita  frowned  and  then  smiled. 

"So  that's  what  you  did !    You  have  got  nerve !" 

He  bowed. 

"A  well-known  bourgeois  quality,"  he  said. 

And  then  dawn  slanted  dynamically  across  the 
deck  and  flung  the  shadows  reeling  into  gray  cor 
ners.  The  dew  rose  and  turned  to  golden  mist, 
thin  as  a  dream,  enveloping  them  until  they  seemed 
gossamer  relics  of  the  late  night,  infinitely  transient 
and  already  fading.  For  a  moment  sea  and  sky 
were  breathless,  and  dawn  held  a  pink  hand  over 
the  young  mouth  of  life — then  from  out  in  the  lake 
came  the  complaint  of  a  rowboat  and  the  swish  of 
oars. 

Suddenly  against  the  golden  furnace  low  in  the 
east  their  two  graceful  figures  melted  into  one,  and 
he  was  kissing  her  spoiled  young  mouth. 

"It's  a  sort  of  glory,"  he  murmured  after  a 
second. 

She  smiled  up  at  him. 

"Happy,  are  you?" 

Her  sigh  was  a  benediction — an  ecstatic  surety 
that  she  was  youth  and  beauty  now  as  much  as  she 
would  ever  know.  For  another  instant  life  was 
radiant  and  time  a  phantom  and  their  strength 
eternal — then  there  was  a  bumping,  scraping  sound 
as  the  rowboat  scraped  alongside. 

Up  the  ladder  scrambled  the  two  gray-haired 
men,  the  officer  and  two  of  the  sailors  with  their 
hands  on  their  revolvers.  Mr.  Farnam  folded  his 
arms  and  stood  looking  at  his  niece. 


46  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"So,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head  slowly. 

With  a  sigh  her  arms  unwound  from  Carlyle's 
neck,  and  her  eyes,  transfigured  and  far  away,  fell 
upon  the  boarding  party.  Her  uncle  saw  her  upper 
lip  slowly  swell  into  that  arrogant  pout  he  knew  so 
well. 

"So,"  he  repeated  savagely.  "So  this  is  your 
idea  of — of  romance.  A  runaway  affair,  with  a 
high-seas  pirate." 

Ardita  glanced  at  him  carelessly. 

"What  an  old  fool  you  are!"  she  said  quietly. 

"Is  that  the  best  you  can  say  for  yourself?" 

"No,"  she  said  as  if  considering.  "No,  there's 
something  else.  There's  that  well-known  phrase 
with  which  I  have  ended  most  of  our  conversations 
for  the  past  few  years — '  Shut  up ! " 

And  with  that  she  turned,  included  the  two  old 
men,  the  officer,  and  the  two  sailors  in  a  curt  glance 
of  contempt,  and  walked  proudly  down  the  com- 
panionway. 

But  had  she  waited  an  instant  longer  she  would 
have  heard  a  sound  from  her  uncle  quite  unfamiliar 
in  most  of  their  interviews.  He  gave  vent  to  a 
whole-hearted  amused  chuckle,  in  which  the  second 
old  man  joined. 

The  latter  turned  briskly  to  Carlyle,  who  had 
been  regarding  this  scene  with  an  air  of  cryptic 
amusement. 

"Well,  Toby,"  he  said  genially,  "you  incurable, 
hare-brained,  romantic  chaser  of  rainbows,  did  you 
find  that  she  was  the  person  you  wanted?" 


THE  OFFSHORE  PIRATE  47 

Carlyle  smiled  confidently. 

"Why — naturally,"  he  said.  "I've  been  per 
fectly  sure  ever  since  I  first  heard  tell  of  her  wild 
career.  That's  why  I  had  Babe  send  up  the  rocket 
last  night." 

"I'm  glad  you  did,"  said  Colonel  Moreland 
gravely.  "  We've  been  keeping  pretty  close  to  you 
in  case  you  should  have  trouble  with  those  six  strange 
niggers.  And  we  hoped  we'd  find  you  two  in  some 
such  compromising  position,"  he  sighed.  "Well, 
set  a  crank  to  catch  a  crank!" 

"Your  father  and  I  sat  up  all  night  hoping  for  the 
best — or  perhaps  it's  the  worst.  Lord  knows  you're 
welcome  to  her,  my  boy.  She's  run  me  crazy.  Did 
you  give  her  the  Russian  bracelet  my  detective  got 
from  that  Mimi  woman?" 

Carlyle  nodded. 

"  Sh ! "  he  said.    "  She's  coming  on  deck." 

Ardita  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  companion- 
way  and  gave  a  quick  involuntary  glance  at  Carlyle's 
wrists.  A  puzzled  look  passed  across  her  face.  Back 
aft  the  negroes  had  begun  to  sing,  and  the  cool  lake, 
fresh  with  dawn,  echoed  serenely  to  their  low  voices. 

"Ardita,"  said  Carlyle  unsteadily. 

She  swayed  a  step  toward  him. 

"Ardita,"  he  repeated  breathlessly,  "I've  got  to 
tell  you  the — the  truth.  It  was  all  a  plant,  Ardita. 
My  name  isn't  Carlyle.  It's  Moreland,  Toby 
Moreland.  The  story  was  invented,  Ardita,  in 
vented  out  of  thin  Florida  air." 

She  stared  at  him,  bewildered  amazement,  dis- 


48  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

belief,  and  anger  flowing  in  quick  waves  across  her 
face.  The  three  men  held  their  breaths.  More- 
land,  Senior,  took  a  step  toward  her;  Mr.  Farnam's 
mouth  dropped  a  little  open  as  he  waited,  panic- 
stricken,  for  the  expected  crash. 

But  it  did  not  come.  Ardita's  face  became  sud 
denly  radiant,  and  with  a  little  laugh  she  went 
swiftly  to  young  Moreland  and  looked  up  at  him 
without  a  trace  of  wrath  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"Will  you  swear,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  it  was 
entirely  a  product  of  your  own  brain  ?" 

"I  swear,"  said  young  Moreland  eagerly. 

She  drew  his  head  down  and  kissed  him  gently. 

"What  an  imagination!"  she  said  softly  and 
almost  enviously.  "I  want  you  to  lie  to  me  just 
as  sweetly  as  you  know  how  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

The  negroes7  voices  floated  drowsily  back,  mingled 
in  an  air  that  she  had  heard  them  sing  before. 

"Time  is  a  thief; 
Gladness  and  grief 
Cling  to  the  leaf 
As  it  yellows " 

"What  was  in  the  bags?"  she  asked  softly. 

"Florida  mud,"  he  answered.  "That  was  one  of 
the  two  true  things  I  told  you." 

"Perhaps  I  can  guess  the  other  one,"  she  said; 
and  reaching  up  on  her  tiptoes  she  kissed  him  softly 
in  the  illustration. 


THE  ICE   PALACE 

THE  sunlight  dripped  over  the  house  like  golden 
paint  over  an  art  jar,  and  the  freckling  shadows 
here  and  there  only  intensified  the  rigor  of  the  bath 
of  light.  The  Butterworth  and  Larkin  houses 
flanking  were  intrenched  behind  great  stodgy  trees; 
only  the  Happer  house  took  the  full  sun,  and  all 
day  long  faced  the  dusty  road-street  with  a  tolerant 
kindly  patience.  This  was  the  city  of  Tarleton  in 
southernmost  Georgia,  September  afternoon. 

Up  in  her  bedroom  window  Sally  Carrol  Happer 
rested  her  nineteen-year-old  chin  on  a  fifty-two-year- 
old  sill  and  watched  Clark  Darrow's  ancient  Ford 
turn  the  corner.  The  car  was  hot — being  partly 
metallic  it  retained  all  the  heat  it  absorbed  or  evolved 
—and  Clark  D arrow  sitting  bolt  upright  at  the 
wheel  wore  a  pained,  strained  expression  as  though 
he  considered  himself  a  spare  part,  and  rather  likely 
to  break.  He  laboriously  crossed  two  dust  ruts,  the 
wheels  squeaking  indignantly  at  the  encounter,  and 
then  with  a  terrifying  expression  he  gave  the  steer 
ing-gear  a  final  wrench  and  deposited  self  and  car 
approximately  in  front  of  the  Happer  steps.  There 
was  a  plaintive  heaving  sound,  a  death-rattle,  fol 
lowed  by  a  short  silence;  and  then  the  air  was  rent 
by  a  startling  whistle. 

Sally  Carrol  gazed  down  sleepily.     She  started 

49 


50  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

to  yawn,  but  finding  this  quite  impossible  unless 
she  raised  her  chin  from  the  window-sill,  changed 
her  mind  and  continued  silently  to  regard  the  car, 
whose  owner  sat  brilliantly  if  perfunctorily  at  at 
tention  as  he  waited  for  an  answer  to  his  signal. 
After  a  moment  the  whistle  once  more  split  the 
dusty  air. 

"Good  mawninV 

With  difficulty  Clark  twisted  his  tall  body  round 
and  bent  a  distorted  glance  on  the  window. 

"Tain't  mawnin',  Sally  Carrol." 

"Isn't  it,  sure  enough?" 

"What  you  doin'?" 

"Eatin'  'n  apple." 

"Come  on  go  swimmin' — want  to?" 

"Reckon  so." 

"How  'bout  hurryin'  up?" 

"Sure  enough." 

Sally  Carrol  sighed  voluminously  and  raised  her 
self  with  profound  inertia  from  the  floor,  where  she 
had  been  occupied  in  alternately  destroying  parts  of 
a  green  apple  and  painting  paper  dolls  for  her  younger 
sister.  She  approached  a  mirror,  regarded  her  ex 
pression  with  a  pleased  and  pleasant  languor,  dabbed 
two  spots  of  rouge  on  her  lips  and  a  grain  of  powder 
on  her  nose,  and  covered  her  bobbed  corn-colored 
hair  with  a  rose-littered  sunbonnet.  Then  she 
kicked  over  the  painting  water,  said,  "Oh,  damn!" 
— but  let  it  lay — and  left  the  room. 

"How  you,  Clark?"  she  inquired  a  minute  later 
as  she  slipped  nimbly  over  the  side  of  the  car. 


THE  ICE  PALACE  *  51 

"Mighty  fine,  Sally  Carrol." 

"Where  we  go  swimmin'?" 

"Out  to  Walley's  Pool.  Told  Marylyn  we'd  call 
by  an'  get  her  an'  Joe  Ewing." 

Clark  was  dark  and  lean,  and  when  on  foot  was 
rather  inclined  to  stoop.  His  eyes  were  ominous 
and  his  expression  somewhat  petulant  except  when 
startlingly  illuminated  by  one  of  his  frequent  smiles. 
Clark  had  "a  income" — just  enough  to  keep  him 
self  in  ease  and  his  car  in  gasolene — and  he  had  spent 
the  two  years  since  he  graduated  from  Georgia 
Tech  in  dozing  round  the  lazy  streets  of  his  home 
town,  discussing  how  he  could  best  invest  his  capital 
for  an  immediate  fortune. 

Hanging  round  he  found  not  at  all  difficult;  a 
crowd  of  little  girls  had  grown  up  beautifully,  the 
amazing  Sally  Carrol  foremost  among  them;  and 
they  enjoyed  being  swum  with  and  danced  with  and 
made  love  to  in  the  flower-filled  summery  evenings 
—and  they  all  liked  Clark  immensely.  When  fem 
inine  company  palled  there  were  half  a  dozen  other 
youths  who  were  always  just  about  to  do  something, 
and  meanwhile  were  quite  willing  to  join  him  in  a 
few  holes  of  golf,  or  a  game  of  billiards,  or  the  con 
sumption  of  a  quart  of  "hard  yella  licker."  Every 
once  in  a  while  one  of  these  contemporaries  made  a 
farewell  round  of  calls  before  going  up  to  New  York 
or  Philadelphia  or  Pittsburgh  to  go  into  business, 
but  mostly  they  just  stayed  round  in  this  languid 
paradise  of  dreamy  skies  and  firefly  evenings  and 
noisy  niggery  street  fairs — and  especially  of  gracious, 


52  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

soft-voiced  girls,  who  were  brought  up  on  memories 
instead  of  money. 

The  Ford  having  been  excited  into  a  sort  of 
restless  resentful  life  Clark  and  Sally  Carrol  rolled 
and  rattled  down  Valley  Avenue  into  Jefferson 
Street,  where  the  dust  road  became  a  pavement; 
along  opiate  Millicent  Place,  where  there  were  half 
a  dozen  prosperous,  substantial  mansions;  and  on 
into  the  down-town  section.  Driving  was  perilous 
here,  for  it  was  shopping  tune;  the  population  idled 
casually  across  the  streets  and  a  drove  of  low-moan 
ing  oxen  were  being  urged  along  in  front  of  a  placid 
street-car;  even  the  shops  seemed  only  yawning 
their  doors  and  blinking  their  windows  in  the  sun 
shine  before  retiring  into  a  state  of  utter  and  finite 
coma. 

"Sally  Carrol,"  said  Clark  suddenly,  "it  a  fact 
that  you're  engaged  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  quickly. 

"Where'd  you  hear  that?" 

"Sure  enough,  you  engaged?" 

"'At's  a  nice  question!" 

"Girl  told  me  you  were  engaged  to  a  Yankee 
you  met  up  in  Asheville  last  summer." 

Sally  Carrol  sighed. 

"Never  saw  such  an  old  town  for  rumors." 

"Don't  marry  a  Yankee,  Sally  Carrol.  We  need 
you  round  here." 

Sally  Carrol  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Clark,"  she  demanded  suddenly,  "who  on  earth 
shall  I  marry?" 


THE  ICE  PALACE  53 

"I  offer  my  services." 

"Honey,  you  couldn't  support  a  wife,"  she  an 
swered  cheerfully.  "Anyway,  I  know  you  too  well 
to  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"  'At  doesn't  mean  you  ought  to  marry  a  Yankee," 
he  persisted. 

"S'posellovehim?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  couldn't.  He'd  be  a  lot  different  from  us, 
every  way." 

He  broke  off  as  he  halted  the  car  in  front  of  a 
rambling,  dilapidated  house.  Marylyn  Wade  and 
Joe  Ewing  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"'Lo,  Sally  Carrol." 

"Hi!" 

"Howyou-all?" 

"Sally  Carrol,"  demanded  Marylyn  as  they 
started  off  again,  "you  engaged?" 

"Lawdy,  where'd  all  this  start?  Can't  I  look  at 
a  man  'thout  everybody  in  town  engagin'  me  to 
him?" 

Clark  stared  straight  in  front  of  him  at  a  bolt  on 
the  clattering  wind-shield. 

"Sally  CaiTol,"  he  said  with  a  curious  intensity, 
"don't  you  like  us?" 

"What?" 

"Us  down  here?" 

'Why,  Clark,  you  know  I  do.    I  adore  all  you 
boys." 

"Then  why  you  gettin'  engaged  to  a  Yankee?" 

"  Clark,  I  don't  know.    I'm  not  sure  what  I'll  do, 


\ 


54  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

but — well,  I  want  to  go  places  and  see  people.  I 
want  my  mind  to  grow.  I  want  to  live  where  things 
happen  on  a  big  scale." 

"What  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  Clark,  I  love  you,  and  I  love  Joe  here,  and 
Ben  Arrot,  and  you-aU,  but  you'll — you'll 

"We'll  all  be  failures?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  mean  only  money  failures,  but 
just  sort  of — of  ineffectual  and  sad,  and — oh,  how 
can  I  tell  you?" 

"You  mean  because  we  stay  here  hi  Tarleton?" 

"Yes,  Clark;  and  because  you  like  it  and  never 
want  to  change  things  or  think  or  go  ahead." 

He  nodded  and  she  reached  over  and  pressed  his 
hand. 

"Clark,"  she  said  softly,  "I  wouldn't  change  you 
for  the  world.  You're  sweet  the  way  you  are.  The 
things  that'll  make  you  fail  I'll  love  always — the 
living  in  the  past,  the  lazy  days  and  nights  you  have, 
and  all  your  carelessness  and  generosity." 

"But  you're  goin'  away?" 

"Yes — because  I  couldn't  ever  marry  you. 
You've  a  place  hi  my  heart  no  one  else  ever  could 
have,  but  tied  down  here  I'd  get  restless.  I'd  feel 
I  was — wastin'  myself.  There's  two  sides  to  me, 
you  see.  There's  the  sleepy  old  side  you  love;  an' 
there's  a  sort  of  energy — the  feelin'  that  makes  me 
do  wild  things.  That's  the  part  of  me  that  may 
be  useful  somewhere,  that'll  last  when  I'm  not  beau 
tiful  any  more." 


THE  ICE  PALACE  55 

She  broke  off  with  characteristic  suddenness  and 
sighed,  "Oh,  sweet  cooky!"  as  her  mood  changed. 

Half  closing  her  eyes  and  tipping  back  her  head 
till  it  rested  on  the  seat-back  she  let  the  savory 
breeze  fan  her  eyes  and  ripple  the  fluffy  curls  of  her 
bobbed  hair.  They  were  in  the  country  now, 
hurrying  between  tangled  growths  of  bright-green 
coppice  and  grass  and  tall  trees  that  sent  sprays  of 
foliage  to  hang  a  cool  welcome  over  the  road.  Here 
and  there  they  passed  a  battered  negro  cabin,  its 
oldest  white-haired  inhabitant  smoking  a  corncob 
pipe  beside  the  door,  and  half  a  dozen  scantily 
clothed  ^pickaninnies  parading  tattered  dolls  on  the 
wild-grown  grass  in  front.  Farther  out  were  lazy 
cotton-fields,  where  even  the  workers  seemed  in 
tangible  shadows  lent  by  the  sun  to  the  earth,  not 
for  toil,  but  to  while  away  some  age-old  tradition 
in  the  golden  September  fields.  And  round  the 
drowsy  picturesqueness,  over  the  trees  and  shacks 
and  muddy  rivers,  flowed  the  heat,  never  hostile, 
only  comforting,  like  a  great  warm  nourishing  bosom 
for  the  infant  earth. 

"Sally  Carrol,  we're  here!" 

"Poor  chile's  soun'  asleep." 

"Honey,  you  dead  at  last  outa  sheer  laziness?" 

"Water,  Sally  Carrol!  Cool  water  waitin'  for 
you!" 

Her  eyes  opened  sleepily. 

"Hi!"  she  murmured,  smiling. 


$6  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

II 

In  November  Harry  Bellamy,  tall,  broad,  and 
brisk,  came  down  from  his  Northern  city  to  spend 
four  days.  His  intention  was^to  settle  a  matter  that 
had  been  hanging  fire  since  he  and  Sally  Carrol  had 
met  in  Asheville,  North  Carolina,  in  midsummer. 
The  settlement  took  only  a  quiet  afternoon  and  an 
evening  in  front  of  a  glowing  open  fire,  for  Harry 
Bellamy  had  everything  she  wanted;  and,  besides, 
she  loved  him — loved  him  with  that  side  of  her  she 
kept  especially  for  loving.  Sally  Carrol  had  several 
rather  clearly  defined  sides. 

On  his  last  afternoon  they  walked,  and  she  found 
their  steps  tending  half-unconsciously  toward  one 
of  her  favorite  haunts,  the  cemetery.  When  it 
came  in  sight,  gray-white  and  golden-green  under 
the  cheerful  late  sun,  she  paused,  irresolute,  by  the 
iron  gate. 

"Are  you  mournful  by  nature,  Harry?"  she  asked 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"Mournful?    Not  I." 

"Then  let's  go  in  here.  It  depresses  some  folks, 
but  I  like  it." 

They  passed  through  the  gateway  and  followed  a 
path  that  led  through  a  wavy  valley  of  graves — 
dusty-gray  and  mouldy  for  the  fifties;  quaintly 
carved  with  flowers  and  jars  for  the  seventies;  ornate 
and  hideous  for  the  nineties,  with  fat  marble  cherubs 
lying  in  sodden  sleep  on  stone  pillows,  and  great 
impossible  growths  of  nameless  granite  flowers. 


THE  ICE  PALACE  57 

Occasionally  they  saw  a  kneeling  figure  with  trib 
utary  flowers,  but  over  most  of  the  graves  lay  silence 
and  withered  leaves  with  only  the  fragrance  that 
their  own  shadowy  memories  could  waken  in  living 
minds. 

They  reached  the  top  of  a  hill  where  they  were 
fronted  by  a  tall,  round  head-stone,  freckled  with 
dark  spots  of  damp  and  half  grown  over  with 
vines. 

"Marger>  'Lee,"  she  read;  "1844-1873.  Wasn't 
she  nice?  She  died  when  she  was  twenty-nine. 
Dear  Margery  Lee,"  she  added  softly.  "Can't  you 
see  her,  Harry?" 

"Yes,  Sally  Carrol." 

He  felt  a  little  hand  insert  itself  into  his. 

"She  was  dark,  I  think;  and  she  always  wore 
her  hair  with  a  ribbon  in  it,  and  gorgeous  hoop- 
skirts  of  alice  blue  and  old  rose." 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  she  was  sweet,  Harry!  And  she  was  the 
sort  of  girl  born  to  stand  on  a  wide,  pillared  porch 
and  welcome  folks  in.  I  think  perhaps  a  lot  of  men 
went  away  to  war  meanin'  to  come  back  to  her; 
but  maybe  none  of  'em  ever  did." 

He  stooped  down  close  to  the  stone,  hunting  for 
any  record  of  marriage. 

"There's  nothing  here  to  show." 

"Of  course  not.  How  could  there  be  anything 
there  better  than  just  'Margery  Lee,'  and  that  elo 
quent  date?" 

She  drew  close  to  him  and  an  unexpected  lump 


58  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

came  into  his  throat  as  her  yellow  hair  brushed  his 
cheek. 

"You  see  how  she  was,  don't  you,  Harry?" 

"I  see,"  he  agreed  gently.  "I  see  through  your 
precious  eyes.  You're  beautiful  now,  so  I  know  she 
must  have  been." 

Silent  and  close  they  stood,  and  he  could  feel  her 
shoulders  trembling  a  little.  An  ambling  breeze 
swept  up  the  hill  and  stirred  the  brim  of  her  floppidy 
hat. 

"Let's  go  down  there!" 

She  was  pointing  to  a  flat  stretch  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hill  where  along  the  green  turf  were  a  thou 
sand  grayish- white  crosses  stretching  in  endless, 
ordered  rows  like  the  stacked  arms  of  a  battalion. 

"Those  are  the  Confederate  dead,"  said  SaUy 
Carrol  simply. 

They  walked  along  and  read  the  inscriptions, 
always  only  a  name  and  a  date,  sometimes  quite  in 
decipherable. 

"The  last  row  is  the  saddest — see,  'way  over  there. 
Every  cross  has  just  a  date  on  it,  and  the  word 
'  Unknown.'" 

She  looked  at  him  and  her  eyes  brimmed  with 
tears. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  real  it  is  to  me,  darling — if 
you  don't  know." 

"How  you  feel  about  it  is  beautiful  to  me." 

"No,  no,  it's  not  me,  it's  them — that  old  time 
that  I've  tried  to  have  live  in  me.  These  were  just 
men,  unimportant  evidently  or  they  wouldn't  have 


THE  ICE  PALACE  59 

been  '  unknown ';  but  they  died  for  the  most  beauti 
ful  thing  in  the  world — the  dead  South.  You  see," 
she  continued,  her  voice  still  husky,  her  eyes  glisten 
ing  with  tears,  "people  have  these  dreams  they 
fasten  onto  things,  and  I've  always  grown  up  with 
that  dream.  It  was  so  easy  because  it  was  all  dead 
and  there  weren't  any  disillusions  comin'  to  me. 
I've  tried  in  a  way  to  live  up  to  those  past  standards 
of  noblesse  oblige — there's  just  the  last  remnants 
of  it,  you  know,  like  the  roses  of  an  old  garden  dying 
all  round  us — streaks  of  strange  courtliness  and 
chivalry  in  some  of  these  boys  an'  stories  I  used  to 
hear  from  a  Confederate  soldier  who  lived  next 
door,  and  a  few  old  darkies.  Oh,  Harry,  there  was 
something,  there  was  something!  I  couldn't  ever 
make  you  understand,  but  it  was  there." 

"I  understand,"  he  assured  her  again  quietly. 

Sally  Carrol  smiled  and  dried  her  eyes  on  the  tip 
of  a  handkerchief  protruding  from  his  breast  pocket. 

"You  don't  feel  depressed,  do  you,  lover?  Even 
when  I  cry  I'm  happy  here,  and  I  get  a  sort  of 
strength  from  it." 

Hand  in  hand  they  turned  and  walked  slowly 
away.  Finding  soft  grass  she  drew  him  down  to  a 
seat  beside  her  with  their  backs  against  the  rem 
nants  of  a  low  broken  wall. 

"Wish  those  three  old  women  would  clear  out," 
he  complained.  "I  want  to  kiss  you,  Sally  Carrol." 

"Me,  too." 

They  waited  impatiently  for  the  three  bent  fig 
ures  to  move  off,  and  then  she  kissed  him  until  the 


60  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

sky  seemed  to  fade  out  and  all  her  smiles  and  tears 
to  vanish  in  an  ecstasy  of  eternal  seconds. 

Afterward  they  walked  slowly  back  together, 
while  on  the  corners  twilight  played  at  somnolent 
black-and-white  checkers  with  the  end  of  day. 

"You'll  be  up  about  mid- January,"  he  said,  "and 
you've  got  to  stay  a  month  at  least.  It'll  be  slick. 
There's  a  winter  carnival  on,  and  if  youVe  never 
really  seen  snow  it'll  be  like  fairy-land  to  you. 
There'll  be  skating  and  skiing  and  tobogganing  and 
sleigh-riding,  and  all  sorts  of  torchlight  parades  on 
snow-shoes.  They  haven't  had  one  for  years,  so 
they're  going  to  make  it  a  knock-out." 

"Will  I  be  cold,  Harry?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"You  certainly  won't.  You  may  freeze  your 
nose,  but  you  won't  be  shivery  cold.  It's  hard  and 
dry,  you  know." 

"I  guess  I'm  a  summer  child.  I  don't  like  any 
cold  I've  ever  seen." 

She  broke  off  and  they  were  both  silent  for  a 
minute. 

"Sally  Carrol,"  he  said  very  slowly,  "what  do 
you  say  to — March?" 

"I  say  I  love  you." 

"March?" 

"March,  Harry." 

HI 

All  night  in  the  Pullman  it  was  very  cold.  She 
rang  for  the  porter  to  ask  for  another  blanket,  and 
when  he  couldn't  give  her  one  she  tried  vainly,  by 


THE  ICE  PALACE  61 

squeezing  down  into  the  bottom  of  her  berth  and 
doubling  back  the  bedclothes,  to  snatch  a  few 
hours'  sleep.  She  wanted  to  look  her  best  in  the 
morning. 

She  rose  at  six  and  sliding  uncomfortably  into  her 
clothes  stumbled  up  to  the  diner  for  a  cup  of  coffee. 
The  snow  had  filtered  into  the  vestibules  and  cov 
ered  the  floor  with  a  slippery  coating.  It  was  in 
triguing,  this  cold,  it  crept  in  everywhere.  Her 
breath  was  quite  visible  and  she  blew  into  the  air 
with  a  naive  enjoyment.  Seated  in  the  diner  she 
stared  out  the  window  at  white  hills  and  valleys 
and  scattered  pines  whose  every  branch  was  a  green 
platter  for  a  cold  feast  of  snow.  Sometimes  a  solitary 
farmhouse  would  fly  by,  ugly  and  bleak  and  lone 
on  the  white  waste;  and  with  each  one  she  had  an 
instant  of  chill  compassion  for  the  souls  shut  in 
there  waiting  for  spring. 

As  she  left  the  diner  and  swayed  back  into  the 
Pullman  she  experienced  a  surging  rush  of  energy 
and  wondered  if  she  was  feeling  the  bracing  air  of 
which  Harry  had  spoken.  This  was  the  North, 
tha  North — her  land  now ! 

"Then  blow,  ye  winds,  heigho ! 
A-roving  I  will  go," 

she  chanted  exultantly  to  herself. 

" What's  'at?"  inquired  the  porter  politely. 

" I  said :' Brush  me  off.'" 

The  long  wires  of   the  telegraph-poles  doubled; 


62  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

two  tracks  ran  up  beside  the  train — three — four; 
came  a  succession  of  white-roofed  houses,  a  glimpse 
of  a  trolley-car  with  frosted  windows,  streets — more 
streets — the  city. 

She  stood  for  a  dazed  moment  in  the  frosty  sta 
tion  before  she  saw  three  fur-bundled  figures  de 
scending  upon  her. 

"There  she  is!" 

"Oh,  Sally  Carrol!" 

Sally  Carrol  dropped  her  bag. 

"Hi!" 

A  faintly  familiar  icy-cold  face  kissed  her,  and 
then  she  was  in  a  group  of  faces  all  apparently  emit 
ting  great  clouds  of  heavy  smoke;  she  was  shaking 
hands.  There  were  Gordon,  a  short,  eager  man  of 
thirty  who  looked  like  an  amateur  knocked-about 
model  for  Harry,  and  his  wife,  Myra,  a  listless  lady 
with  flaxen  hair  under  a  fur  automobile  cap.  Al 
most  immediately  Sally  Carrol  thought  of  her  as 
vaguely  Scandinavian.  A  cheerful  chauffeur  adopted 
her  bag,  and  amid  ricochets  of  half-phrases,  excla 
mations,  and  perfunctory  listless  "my  dears"  from 
Myra,  they  swept  each  other  from  the  station. 

Then  they  were  in  a  sedan  bound  through  a 
crooked  succession  of  snowy  streets  where  dozens 
of  little  boys  were  hitching  sleds  behind  grocery 
wagons  and  automobiles. 

"Oh,"  cried  Sally  Carrol,  "I  want  to  do  that! 
Can  we,  Harry?" 

"That's  for  kids.    But  we  might " 

"It  looks  like  such  a  circus !"  she  said  regretfully. 


THE  ICE  PALACE  63 

Home  was  a  rambling  frame  house  set  on  a  white 
lap  of  snow,  and  there  she  met  a  big,  gray-haired 
man  of  whom  she  approved,  and  a  lady  who  was 
like  an  egg,  and  who  kissed  her — these  were  Harry's 
parents.  There  was  a  breathless  indescribable  hour 
crammed  full  of  half-sentences,  hot  water,  bacon 
and  eggs  and  confusion;  and  after  that  she  was 
alone  with  Harry  in  the  library,  asking  him  if  she 
dared  smoke. 

It  was  a  large  room  with  a  Madonna  over  the  fire 
place  and  rows  upon  rows  of  books  in  covers  of  light 
gold  and  dark  gold  and  shiny  red.  All  the  chairs 
had  little  lace  squares  where  one's  head  should  rest, 
the  couch  was  just  comfortable,  the  books  looked  as 
if  they  had  been  read — some — and  Sally  Carrol  had 
an  instantaneous  vision  of  the  battered  old  library 
at  home,  with  her  father's  huge  medical  books,  and 
the  oil-paintings  of  her  three  great-uncles,  and  the 
old  couch  that  had  been  mended  up  for  forty-five 
years  and  was  still  luxurious  to  dream  in.  This 
room  struck  her  as  being  neither  attractive  nor 
particularly  otherwise.  It  was  simply  a  room  with 
a  lot  of  fairly  expensive  things  in  it  that  all  looked 
about  fifteen  years  old. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  up  here?"  demanded 
Harry  eagerly.  "Does  it  surprise  you?  Is  it  what 
you  expected,  I  mean?" 

"You  are,  Harry,"  she  said  quietly,  and  reached 
out  her  arms  to  him. 

But  after  a  brief  kiss  he  seemed  anxious  to  extort 
enthusiasm  from  her. 


64  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"The  town,  I  mean.  Do  you  like  it?  Can  you 
feel  the  pep  in  the  air?" 

"Oh,  Harry,"  she  laughed,  "you'll  have  to  give 
me  time.  You  can't  just  fling  questions  at  me." 

She  puffed  at  her  cigarette  with  a  sigh  of  con 
tentment. 

"One  thing  I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  began  rather 
apologetically;  "you  Southerners  put  quite  an 
emphasis  on  family,  and  all  that — not  that  it  isn't 
quite  all  right,  but  you'll  find  it  a  little  different 
here.  I  mean — you'll  notice  a  lot  of  things  that'll 
seem  to  you  sort  of  vulgar  display  at  first,  Sally 
Carrol;  but  just  remember  that  this  is  a  three- 
generation  town.  Everybody  has  a  father,  and 
about  half  of  us  have  grandfathers.  Back  of  that 
we  don't  go." 

"Of  course,"  she  murmured. 

"Our  grandfathers,  you  see,  founded  the  place, 
and  a  lot  of  them  had  to  take  some  pretty  queer 
jobs  while  they  were  doing  the  founding.  For  in 
stance,  there's  one  woman  who  at  present  is  about 
the  social  model  for  the  town;  well,  her  father  was 
the  first  public  ash  man — things  like  that." 

"Why,"  said  Sally  Carrol,  puzzled,  "did  you 
s'pose  I  was  goin'  to  make  remarks  about  people?" 

"Not  at  all,"  interrupted  Harry;  "and  I'm  not 
apologizing  for  any  one  either.  It's  just  that — well, 
a  Southern  girl  came  up  here  last  summer  and  said 
some  unfortunate  things,  and — oh,  I  just  thought 
I'd  tell  you." 

Sally  Carrol  felt  suddenly  indignant — as  though 


THE  ICE  PALACE  65 

she  had  been  unjustly  spanked — but  Harry  evi 
dently  considered  the  subject  closed,  for  he  went 
on  with  a  great  surge  of  enthusiasm. 

"It's  carnival  time,  you  know.  First  in  ten  years. 
And  there's  an  ice  palace  they're  building  now  that's 
the  first  they've  had  since  eighty-five.  Built  out 
of  blocks  of  the  clearest  ice  they  could  find — on  a 
tremendous  scale." 

She  rose  and  walking  to  the  window  pushed  aside 
the  heavy  Turkish  portieres  and  looked  out. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  suddenly.  "There's  two  little 
boys  makin'  a  snow  man !  Harry,  do  you  reckon 
I  can  go  out  an'  help  'em?" 

"You  dream!    Come  here  and  kiss  me." 

She  left  the  window  rather  reluctantly. 

"I  don't  guess  this  is  a  very  kissable  climate,  is 
it?  I  mean,  it  makes  you  so  you  don't  want  to  sit 
round,  doesn't  it?" 

"We're  not  going  to.  I've  got  a  vacation  for  the 
first  week  you're  here,  and  there's  a  dinner-dance 
to-night." 

"Oh,  Harry,"  she  confessed,  subsiding  in  a  heap, 
half  in  his  lap,  half  in  the  pillows,  "I  sure  do  feel 
confused.  I  haven't  got  an  idea  whether  I'll  like 
it  or  not,  an'  I  don't  know  what  people  expect,  or 
anythin'.  You'll  have  to  tell  me,  honey." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  said  softly,  "if  you'll  just  tell 
me  you're  glad  to  be  here." 

"Glad — just  awful  glad!"  she  whispered,  insinu 
ating  herself  into  his  arms  in  her  own  peculiar  way. 
"Where  you  are  is  home  for  me,  Harry." 


66  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

And  as  she  said  this  she  had  the  feeling  for  almost 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  was  acting  a  part. 

That  night,  amid  the  gleaming  candles  of  a 
dinner-party,  where  the  men  seemed  to  do  most  of 
the  talking  while  the  girls  sat  in  a  haughty  and  ex 
pensive  aloofness,  even  Harry's  presence  on  her 
left  failed  to  make  her  feel  at  home. 

"  They're  a  good-looking  crowd,  don't  you  think  ?  " 
he  demanded.  "Just  look  round.  There's  Spud 
Hubbard,  tackle  at  Princeton  last  year,  and  Junie 
Morton — he  and  the  red-haired  fellow  next  to  him 
were  both  Yale  hockey  captains;  Junie  was  in  my 
class.  Why,  the  best  athletes  in  the  world  come 
from  these  States  round  here.  This  is  a  man's 
country,  I  tell  you.  Look  at  John  J.  Fishburn !" 

"Who's  he?"  asked  Sally  Carrol  innocently. 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"I've  heard  the  name." 

"  Greatest  wheat  man  in  the  Northwest,  and  one 
of  the  greatest  financiers  in  the  country."" 

She  turned  suddenly  to  a  voice  on  her  right. 

"I  guess  they  forgot  to  introduce  us.  My  name's 
Roger  Patton." 

"My  name  is  Sally  Carrol  Happer,"  she  said 
graciously. 

"Yes,  I  know.    Harry  told  me  you  were  coming." 

"You  a  relative?" 

"No,  I'm  a  professor." 

"Oh,"  she  laughed. 

"At  the  university.  You're  from  the  South, 
aren't  you?" 


THE  ICE  PALACE  67 

"Yes;  Tarleton,  Georgia." 

She  liked  him  immediately — a  reddish-brown 
mustache  under  watery  blue  eyes  that  had  some 
thing  in  them  that  these  other  eyes  lacked,  some 
quality  of  appreciation.  They  exchanged  stray 
sentences  through  dinner,  and  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  see  him  again. 

After  coffee  she  was  introduced  to  numerous  good- 
looking  young  men  who  danced  with  conscious  pre 
cision  and  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  she 
wanted  to  talk  about  nothing  except  Harry. 

"Heavens,"  she  thought,  "they  talk  as  if  my 
being  engaged  made  me  older  than  they  are — as  if 
I'd  tell  their  mothers  on  them!" 

In  the  South  an  engaged  girl,  even  a  young  mar 
ried  woman,  expected  the  same  amount  of  half- 
affectionate  badinage  and  flattery  that  would  be 
accorded  a  debutante,  but  here  all  that  seemed 
banned.  One  young  man,  after  getting  well  started 
on  the  subject  of  Sally  Carrol's  eyes,  and  how  they 
had  allured  him  ever  since  she  entered  the  room, 
went  into  a  violent  confusion  when  he  found  she 
was  visiting  the  Bellamys — was  Harry's  fianc£e. 
He  seemed  to  feel  as  though  he  had  made  some 
risque  and  inexcusable  blunder,  became  immediately 
formal,  and  left  her  at  the  first  opportunity. 

She  was  rather  glad  when  Roger  Patton  cut  in 
on  her  and  suggested  that  they  sit  out  a  while. 

"Well,"  he  inquired,  blinking  cheerily,  "how's 
Carmen  from  the  South?" 

"Mighty    fine.     How's — how's    Dangerous    Dan 


68  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

McGrew?  Sorry,  but  he's  the  only  Northerner  I 
know  much  about." 

He  seemed  to  enjoy  that. 

"Of  course,"  he  confessed,  "as  a  professor  of 
literature  I'm  not  supposed  to  have  read  Dangerous 
Dan  McGrew." 

"Are  you  a  native?" 

"No,  I'm  a  Philadelphian.  Imported  from  Har 
vard  to  teach  French.  But  I've  been  here  ten 
years." 

"Nine  years,  three  hundred  an'  sixty-four  days 
longer  than  me." 

"Like  it  here?" 

"Uh-huh.    Sure  do!" 

"Really?" 

"Well,  why  not?  Don't  I  look  as  if  I  were 
havin'  a  good  time?" 

"I  saw  you  look  out  the  window  a  minute  ago — 
and  shiver." 

"Just  my  imagination,"  laughed  Sally  Carrol. 
"I'm  used  to  havin'  every  thin'  quiet  outside,  an' 
sometimes  I  look  out  an'  see  a  flurry  of  snow,  an' 
it's  just  as  if  somethin'  dead  was  movin'." 

He  nodded  appreciatively. 

"Ever  been  North  before?" 

"Spent  two  Julys  in  Asheville,  North  Carolina." 

"Nice-looking  crowd,  aren't  they?"  suggested 
Patton,  indicating  the  swirling  floor. 

Sally  Carrol  started.  This  had  been  Harry's  re 
mark. 

"  Sure  are !    They're— canine." 


THE  ICE  PALACE  69 

"What?" 

She  flushed. 

"I'm  sorry;  that  sounded  worse  than  I  meant 
it.  You  see  I  always  think  of  people  as  feline  or 
canine,  irrespective  of  sex." 

"Which  are  you?" 

"I'm  feline.  So  are  you.  So  are  most  Southern 
men  an'  most  of  these  girls  here." 

" What's  Harry?" 

"Harry's  canine  distinctly.  All  the  men  IVe 
met  to-night  seem  to  be  canine." 

"What  does  ' canine'  imply?    A  certain  conscious  | 
masculinity  as  opposed  to  subtlety?" 

"Reckon  so.  I  never  analyzed  it — only  I  just 
look  at  people  an'  say  ' canine'  or  l feline'  right  off. 
It's  right  absurd,  I  guess." 

"Not  at  all.  I'm  interested.  I  used  to  have  a 
theory  about  these  people.  I  think  they're  freezing 
up." 

"What?" 

"I  think  they're  growing  like  Swedes — Ibsenesque, 
you  know.  Very  gradually  getting  gloomy  and 
melancholy.  It's  these  long  winters.  Ever  read 
any  Ibsen?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  you  find  in  his  characters  a  certain  brood- 
injyjjgidit.y:.  They're  righteous,  narrow,  and  cheer 
less,  without  infinite  possibilities  for  great  sorrow 
or  joy." 

"Without  smiles  or  tears?" 

"Exactly.    That's   my   theory.    You   see   there 


70  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

are  thousands  of  Swedes  up  here.  They  come,  I 
imagine,  because  the  climate  is  very  much  like  their 
own,  and  there's  been  a  gradual  mingling.  There're 
probably  not  half  a  dozen  here  to-night,  but — we've 
had  four  Swedish  governors.  Am  I  boring  you?' 

"I'm  mighty  interested." 

"Your  future  sister-in-law  is  half  Swedish.  Per 
sonally  I  like  her,  but  my  theory  is  that  Swedes  re 
act  rather  badly  on  us  as  a  whole.  Scandinavians, 
you  know,  have  the  largest  suicide  rate  in  the 
world." 

"Why  do  you  live  here  if  it's  st)  depressing?" 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  get  me.  I'm  pretty  well  cloistered, 
and  I  suppose  books  mean  more  than  people  to  me 
anyway." 

"But  writers  all  speak  about  the  South  being 
tragic.  You  know — Spanish  senoritas,  black  hair 
and  daggers  an'  haunting  music." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,  the  Northern  races  are  the  tragic  races — 
they  don't  indulge  in  the  cheering  luxury  of  tears." 

Sally  Carrol  thought  of  her  graveyard.  She  sup 
posed  that  that  was  vaguely  what  she  had  meant 
when  she  said  it  didn't  depress  her. 

"The  Italians  are  about  the  gayest  people  in  the 
world — but  it's  a  dull  subject,"  he  broke  off.  "  Any 
way,  I  want  to  tell  you  you're  marrying  a  pretty 
fine  man." 

Sally  Carrol  was  moved  by  an  impulse  of  con 
fidence. 

"I  know.    I'm  the  sort  of  person  who  wants  to 


THE  ICE  PALACE  71 

be  taken  care  of  after  a  certain  point,  and  I  feel 
sure  I  will  be." 

"Shall  we  dance?  You  know,"  he  continued  as 
they  rose,  "it's  encouraging  to  find  a  girl  who  knows 
what  she's  marrying  for.  Nine-tenths  of  them 
think  of  it  as  a  sort  of  walking  into  a  moving-picture 
sunset." 

She  laughed,  and  liked  him  immensely. 

Two  hours  later  on  the  way  home  she  nestled 
near  Harry  in  the  back  seat. 

"Oh,  Harry,"  she  whispered,  "it's  so  co-old!" 

"But  it's  warm  in  here,  darling  girl." 

"But  outside  it's  cold;  and  oh,  that  howling 
wind!" 

She  buried  her  face  deep  in  his  fur  coat  and  trem 
bled  involuntarily  as  his  cold  lips  kissed  the  tip  of 
her  ear. 


IV 

The  first  week  of  her  visit  passed  in  a  whirl.  She 
had  her  promised  toboggan-ride  at  the  back  of 
an  automobile  through  a  chill  January  twilight. 
Swathed  in  furs  she  put  in  a  morning  tobogganing 
on  the  country-club  hill;  even  tried  skiing,  to  sail 
through  the  air  for  a  glorious  moment  and  then 
land  in  a  tangled  laughing  bundle  on  a  soft  snow 
drift.  She  liked  all  the  winter  sports,  except  an 
afternoon  spent  snow-shoeing  over  a  glaring  plain 
under  pale  yellow  sunshine,  but  she  soon  realized 
that  these  things  were  for  children — that  she  was 


72  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

being  humored  and  that  the  enjoyment  round  her 
was  only  a  reflection  of  her  own. 

At  first  the  Bellamy  family  puzzled  her.  The 
men  were  reliable  and  she  liked  them;  to  Mr.  Bel 
lamy  especially,  with  his  iron-gray  hair  and  ener 
getic  dignity,  she  took  an  immediate  fancy,  once  she 
found  that  he  was  born  in  Kentucky;  this  made  of 
him  a  link  between  the  old  life  and  the  new.  But 
toward  the  women  she  felt  a  definite  hostility. 
Myra,  her  future  sister-in-law,  seemed  the  essence 
of  spiritless  conventionality.  Her  conversation  was 
so  utterly  devoid  of  personality  that  Sally  Carrol, 
who  came  from  a  country  where  a  certain  amount 
of  charm  and  assurance  could  be  taken  for  granted 
in  the  women,  was  inclined  to  despise  her. 

"If  those  women  aren't  beautiful,"  she  thought, 
"they're  nothing.  They  just  fade  out  when  you 
look  at  them.  They're  glorified  domestics.  Men 
are  the  centre  of  every  mixed  group." 

Lastly  there  was  Mrs.  Bellamy,  whom  Sally  Car 
rol  detested.  The  first  day's  impression  of  an  egg 
had  been  confirmed — an  egg  with  a  cracked,  veiny 
voice  and  such  an  ungracious  dumpiness  of  carriage 
that  Sally  Carrol  felt  that  if  she  once  fell  she  would 
surely  scramble.  In  addition,  Mrs.  Bellamy  seemed 
to  typify  the  town  in  being  innately  hostile  to 
strangers.  She  called  Sally  Carrol  "Sally,"  and 
could  not  be  persuaded  that  the  double  name  was 
anything  more  than  a  tedious  ridiculous  nickname. 
To  Sally  Carrol  this  shortening  of  her  name  was  like 
presenting  her  to  the  public  half  clothed.  She  loved 


THE  ICE  PALACE  73 

"Sally  Carrol";  she  loathed  "Sally."  She  knew 
also  that  Harry's  mother  disapproved  of  her  bobbed 
hair;  and  she  had  never  dared  smoke  down-stairs 
after  that  first  day  when  Mrs.  Bellamy  had  come 
into  the  library  sniffing  violently. 

Of  all  the  men  she  met  she  preferred  Roger  Pat- 
ton,  who  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  house.  He 
never  again  alluded  to  the  Ibsenesque  tendency  of 
the  populace,  but  when  he  came  in  one  day  and 
found  her  curled  upon  the  sofa  bent  over  "Peer 
Gynt"  he  laughed  and  told  her  to  forget  what  he'd 
said — that  it  was  all  rot. 

And  then  one  afternoon  in  her  second  week  she 
and  Harry  hovered  on  the  edge  of  a  dangerously 
steep  quarrel.  She  considered  that  he  precipitated 
it  entirely,  though  the  Serbia  in  the  case  was  an 
unknown  man  who  had  not  had  his  trousers  pressed. 

They  had  been  walking  homeward  between  mounds 
of  high-piled  snow  and  under  a  sun  which  Sally  Car 
rol  scarcely  recognized.  They  passed  a  little  girl 
done  up  in  gray  wool  until  she  resembled  a  small 
Teddy  bear,  and  Sally  Carrol  could  not  resist  a  gasp 
of  maternal  appreciation. 

"Look!    Harry!" 

"What?" 

"That  little  girl--did  you  see  her  face?" 

"Yes,  why?" 

"It  was  red  as  a  little  strawberry.  Oh,  she  was 
cute!" 

"Why,  your  own  face  is  almost  as  red  as  that 
already !  Everybody's  healthy  here.  We're  out  in 


74  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

the  cold  as  soon  as  we're  old  enough  to  walk.  Won 
derful  climate !" 

She  looked  at  him  and  had  to  agree.  He  was 
mighty  healthy-looking;  so  was  his  brother.  And 
she  had  noticed  the  new  red  in  her  own  cheeks 
that  very  morning. 

Suddenly  their  glances  were  caught  and  held,  and 
they  stared  for  a  moment  at  the  street-corner  ahead 
of  them.  A  man  was  standing  there,  his  knees 
bent,  his  eyes  gazing  upward  with  a  tense  expres 
sion  as  though  he  were  about  to  make  a  leap  toward 
the  chilly  sky.  And  then  they  both  exploded  into 
a  shout  of  laughter,  for  coming  closer  they  discov 
ered  it  had  been  a  ludicrous  momentary  illusion  pro 
duced  by  the  extreme  bagginess  of  the  man's  trou 
sers. 

"Reckon  that's  one  on  us,"  she  laughed. 

"He  must  be  a  Southerner,  judging  by  those 
trousers,"  suggested  Harry  mischievously. 

"Why,  Harry!" 

Her  surprised  look  must  have  irritated  him. 

"Those  damn  Southerners!" 

Sally  Carrol's  eyes  flashed. 

"Don't  call 'em  that!" 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  said  Harry,  malignantly  apolo 
getic,  "  but  you  know  what  I  think  of  them.  They're 
sort  of — sort  of  degenerates — not  at  all  like  the  old 
Southerners.  They've  lived  so  long  down  there 
with  all  the  colored  people  that  they've  gotten  lazy 
and  shiftless." 

"Hush  your  mouth,  Harry!"  she  cried  angrily. 


THE  ICE  PALACE  75 

"They're  not !  They  may  be  lazy — anybody  would 
be  in  that  climate — but  they're  my  best  friends,  an' 
I  don't  want  to  hear  'em  criticised  in  any  such 
sweepin'  way.  Some  of  'em  are  the  finest  men  in 
the  world." 

"Oh,  I  know.  They're  all  right  when  they  come 
North  to  college,  but  of  all  the  hangdog,  ill-dressed, 
slovenly  lot  I  ever  saw,  a  bunch  of  small-town 
Southerners  are  the  worst!" 

Sally  Carrol  was  clinching  her  gloved  hands  and 
biting  her  lip  furiously. 

"Why,"  continued  Harry,  "there  was  one  in  my 
class  at  New  Haven,  and  we  all  thought  that  at 
last  we'd  found  the  true  type  of  Southern  aristocrat* 
but  it  turned  out  that  he  wasn't  an  aristocrat  at  all 
—just  the  son  of  a  Northern  carpetbagger,  who 
owned  about  all  the  cotton  round  Mobile." 

"A  Southerner  wouldn't  talk  the  way  you're  talk 
ing  now,"  she  said  evenly. 

"They  haven't  the  energy!" 

"Or  the  somethin'  else." 

"I'm  sorry,  Sally  Carrol,  but  I've  heard  you  say 
yourself  that  you'd  never  marry " 

"That's  quite  different.  I  told  you  I  wouldn't 
want  to  tie  my  life  to  any  of  the  boys  that  are  round 
Tarleton  now,  but  I  never  made  any  sweepin'  gen 
eralities." 

They  walked  along  in  silence. 

"I  probably  spread  it  on  a  bit  thick,  Sally  Car 
rol.  I'm  sorry." 

She  nodded  but  made  no  answer.    Five  minutes 


76  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

later  as  they  stood  in  the  hallway  she  suddenly 
threw  her  arms  round  him. 

"Oh,  Harry,"  she  cried,  her  eyes  brimming  with 
tears,  "let's  get  married  next  week.  I'm  afraid  of 
having  fusses  like  that.  I'm  afraid,  Harry.  It 
wouldn't  be  that  way  if  we  were  married." 

But  Harry,  being  in  the  wrong,  was  still  irritated. 

"That'd  be  idiotic.    We  decided  on  March." 

The  tears  in  Sally  Carrol's  eyes  faded;  her  expres 
sion  hardened  slightly. 

"Very  well — I  suppose  I  shouldn't  have  said  that." 

Harry  melted. 

"Dear  little  nut!"  he  cried.  "Come  and  kiss 
me  and  let's  forget." 

That  very  night  at  the  end  of  a  vaudeville  per 
formance  the  orchestra  played  "Dixie"  and  Sally 
Carrol  felt  something  stronger  and  more  enduring 
than  her  tears  and  smiles  of  the  day  brim  up  inside 
her.  She  leaned  forward  gripping  the  arms  of  her 
chair  until  her  face  grew  crimson. 

"Sort  of  get  you,  dear?"  whispered  Harry. 

But  she  did  not  hear  him.  To  the  spirited  throb 
of  the  violins  and  the  inspiring  beat  of  the  kettle 
drums  her  own  old  ghosts  were  marching  by  and  on 
into  the  darkness,  and  as  fifes  whistled  and  sighed 
in  the  low  encore  they  seemed  so  nearly  out  of  sight 
that  she  could  have  waved  good-by. 

"Away,  Away, 

Away  down  South  in  Dixie ! 
Away,  away, 

Away  down  South  in  Dixie!" 


THE  ICE  PALACE  77 


It  was  a  particularly  cold  night.  A  sudden  thaw 
had  nearly  cleared  the  streets  the  day  before,  but 
now  they  were  traversed  again  with  a  powdery 
wraith  of  loose  snow  that  travelled  hi  wavy  lines 
before  the  feet  of  the  wind,  and  filled  the  lower  air 
with  a  fine-particled  mist.  There  was  no  sky- 
only  a  dark,  ominous  tent  that  draped  hi  the  tops 
of  the  streets  and  was  in  reality  a  vast  approaching 
army  of  snowflakes — while  over  it  all,  chilling  away 
the  comfort  from  the  brown-and-green  glow  of 
lighted  windows  and  muffling  the  steady  trot  of  the 
horse  pulling  their  sleigh,  interminably  washed  the 
north  wind.  It  was  a  dismal  town  after  all,  she 
thought — dismal. 

Sometimes  at  night  it  had  seemed  to  her  as  though 
no  one  lived  here — they  had  all  gone  long  ago — 
leaving  lighted  houses  to  be  covered  in  time  by 
tombing  heaps  of  sleet.  Oh,  if  there  should  be  snow 
on  her  grave !  To  be  beneath  great  piles  of  it  all 
winter  long,  where  even  her  headstone  would  be  a 
light  shadow  against  light  shadows.  Her  grave — 
a  grave  that  should  be  flower-strewn  and  washed 
with  sun  and  rain. 

She  thought  again  of  those  isolated  country  houses 
that  her  train  had  passed,  and  of  the  life  there  the 
long  winter  through — the  ceaseless  glare  through 
the  windows,  the  crust  forming  on  the  soft  drifts 
of  snow,  finally  the  slow,  cheerless  melting,  and  the 
harsh  spring  of  which  Roger  Patton  had  told  her. 


78  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Her  spring — to  lose  it  forever — with  its  lilacs  and 
the  lazy  sweetness  it  stirred  in  her  heart.  She  was 
laying  away  that  spring — afterward  she  would  lay 
away  that  sweetness. 

With  a  gradual  insistence  the  storm  broke.  Sally 
Carrol  felt  a  film  of  flakes  melt  quickly  on  her  eye 
lashes,  and  Harry  reached  over  a  furry  arm  and  drew 
down  her  complicated  flannel  cap.  Then  the  small 
flakes  came  hi  skirmish-line,  and  the  horse  bent  his 
neck  patiently  as  a  transparency  of  white  appeared 
momentarily  on  his  coat. 

"Oh,  he's  cold,  Harry,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Who?  The  horse?  Oh,  no,  he  isn't.  He  likes 
it!" 

After  another  ten  minutes  they  turned  a  corner 
and  came  hi  sight  of  their  destination.  On  a  tall 
hill  outlined  in  vivid  glaring  green  against  the 
wintry  sky  stood  the  ice  palace.  It  was  three 
stories  in  the  air,  with  battlements  and  embrasures 
and  narrow  icicled  windows,  and  the  innumerable 
electric  lights  inside  made  a  gorgeous  transparency 
of  the  great  central  hall.  Sally  Carrol  clutched 
Harry's  hand  under  the  fur  robe. 

"It's  beautiful !"  he  cried  excitedly.  "My  goUy, 
it's  beautiful,  isn't  it !  They  haven't  had  one  here 
since  eighty-five!" 

Somehow  the  notion  of  there  not  having  been 
one  since  eighty-five  oppressed  her.  Ice  was  a 
ghost,  and  this  mansion  of  it  was  surely  peopled  by 
those  shades  of  the  eighties,  with  pale  faces  and 
blurred  snow-filled  hair. 


THE  ICE  PALACE  79 

"Come  on,  dear,"  said  Harry. 

She  followed  him  out  of  the  sleigh  and  waited 
while  he  hitched  the  horse.  A  party  of  four- 
Gordon,  Myra,  Roger  Patton,  and  another  girl- 
drew  up  beside  them  with  a  mighty  jingle  of  bells. 
There  were  quite  a  crowd  already,  bundled  in  fur 
or  sheepskin,  shouting  and  calling  to  each  other  as 
they  moved  through  the  snow,  which  was  now  so 
thick  that  people  could  scarcely  be  distinguished  a 
few  yards  away. 

"It's  a  hundred  and  seventy  feet  tall,"  Harry 
was  saying  to  a  muffled  figure  beside  him  as  they 
trudged  toward  the  entrance;  "covers  six  thousand 
square  yards." 

She  caught  snatches  of  conversation:  "One  main 
hall"— "walls  twenty  to  forty  inches  thick"— "and 
the  ice  cave  has  almost  a  mile  of — " — "this  Canuck 
who  built  it — 

They  found  their  way  inside,  and  dazed  by  the 
magic  of  the  great  crystal  walls  Sally  Carrol  found 
herself  repeating  over  and  over  two  lines  from 
"KublaKhan": 

"  It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice !" 

In  the  great  glittering  cavern  with  the  dark  shut 
out  she  took  a  seat  on  a  wooden  bench,  and  the 
evening's  oppression  lifted.  Harry  was  right — it 
was  beautiful;  and  her  gaze  travelled  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  walls,  the  blocks  for  which  had  been 


8o  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

selected  for  their  purity  and  clearness  to  obtain  this 
opalescent,  translucent  effect. 

"Look!    Here  we  go — oh,  boy!"  cried  Harry. 

A  band  in  a  far  corner  struck  up  "Hail,  Hail,  the 
Gang's  All  Here!"  which  echoed  over  to  them  in 
wild  muddled  acoustics,  and  then  the  lights  suddenly 
went  out;  silence  seemed  to  flow  down  the  icy  sides 
and  sweep  over  them.  Sally  Carrol  could  still  see 
her  white  breath  in  the  darkness,  and  a  dim  row  of 
pale  faces  over  on  the  other  side. 

The  music  eased  to  a  sighing  complaint,  and  from 
outside  drifted  in  the  full-throated  resonant  chant 
of  the  marching  clubs.  It  grew  louder  like  some 
paean  of  a  viking  tribe  traversing  an  ancient  wild; 
it  swelled — they  were  coming  nearer;  then  a  row 
of  torches  appeared,  and  another  and  another,  and 
keeping  tune  with  their  moccasined  feet  a  long 
column  of  gray-mackinawed  figures  swept  in,  snow- 
shoes  slung  at  their  shoulders,  torches  soaring  and 
flickering  as  their  voices  rose  along  the  great  walls. 

The  gray  column  ended  and  another  followed,  the 
light  streaming  luridly  this  time  over  red  toboggan 
caps  and  flaming  crimson  mackinaws,  and  as  they 
entered  they  took  up  the  refrain;  then  came  a  long 
platoon  of  blue  and  white,  of  green,  of  white,  of 
brown  and  yellow. 

"Those  white  ones  are  the  Wacouta  Club,"  whis 
pered  Harry  eagerly.  "Those  are  the  men  you've 
met  round  at  dances." 

The  volume  of  the  voices  grew;  the  great  cavern 
was  a  phantasmagoria  of  torches  waving  m  great 


THE  ICE  PALACE  81 

banks  of  fire,  of  colors  and  the  rhythm  of  soft-leather 
steps.  The  leading -column  turned  and  halted,  pla 
toon  deployed  in  front  of  platoon  until  the  whole 
procession  made  a  solid  flag  of  flame,  and  then  from 
thousands  of  voices  burst  a  mighty  shout  that  filled 
the  air  like  a  crash  of  thunder,  and  sent  the  torches 
wavering.  It  was  magnificent,  it  was  tremendous ! 
To  Sally  Carrol  it  was  the  North  offering  sacrifice 
on  some  mighty  altar  to  the  gray  pagan  God  of  Snow. 
As  the  shout  died  the  band  struck  up  again  and 
there  came  more  singing,  and  then  long  reverberating 
cheers  by  each  dub.  She  sat  very  quiet  listening 
while  the  staccato  cries  rent  the  stillness;  and  then 
she  started,  for  there  was  a  volley  of  explosion,  and 
great  clouds  of  smoke  went  up  here  and  there  through 
the  cavern — the  flash-light  photographers  at  work — 
and  the  council  was  over.  With  the  band  at  their 
head  the  clubs  formed  in  column  once  more,  took  up 
their  chant,  and  began  to  march  out. 

"Come  on!"  shouted  Harry.  "We  want  to  see 
the  labyrinths  down-stairs  before  they  turn  the 
lights  off!" 

They  all  rose  and  started  toward  the  chute — Harry 
and  Sally  Carrol  in  the  lead,  her  little  mitten  buried 
in  his  big  fur  gantlet.  At  the  bottom  of  the  chute 
was  a  long  empty  room  of  ice,  with  the  ceiling  so 
low  that  they  had  to  stoop — and  their  hands  were 
parted.  Before  she  realized  what  he  intended  Harry 
had  darted  down  one  of  the  half-dozen  glittering  pas 
sages  that  opened  into  the  room  and  was  only  a 
vague  receding  blot  against  the  green  shimmer. 


82  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"  Harry !"  she  caUed. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried  back. 

She  looked  round  the  empty  chamber;  the  rest 
of  the  party  had  evidently  decided  to  go  home, 
were  already  outside  somewhere  in  the  blundering 
snow.  She  hesitated  and  then  darted  in  after 
Harry. 

"Harry!"  she  shouted. 

She  had  reached  a  turning-point  thirty  feet  down; 
she  heard  a  faint  muffled  answer  far  to  the  left, 
and  with  a  touch  of  panic  fled  toward  it.  She  passed 
another  turning,  two  more  yawning  alleys. 

"Harry!" 

No  answer.  She  started  to  run  straight  forward, 
and  then  turned  like  lightning  and  sped  back  the 
way  she  had  come,  enveloped  in  a  sudden  icy  terror. 

She  reached  a  turn — was  it  here? — took  the  left 
and  came  to  what  should  have  been  the  outlet  into 
the  long,  low  room,  but  it  was  only  another  glitter 
ing  passage  with  darkness  at  the  end.  She  called 
again,  but  the  walls  gave  back  a  flat,  lifeless  echo 
with  no  reverberations.  Retracing  her  steps  she 
turned  another  corner,  this  tune  following  a  wide 
passage.  It  was  like  the  green  lane  between  the 
parted  waters  of  the  Red  Sea,  like  a  damp  vault 
connecting  empty  tombs. 

She  slipped  a  little  now  as  she  walked,  for  ice 
had  formed  on  the  bottom  of  her  overshoes;  she 
had  to  run  her  gloves  along  the  half-slippery,  half- 
sticky  walls  to  keep  her  balance. 

"Harry!" 


THE  ICE  PALACE  83 

Still  no  answer.  The  sound  she  made  bounced 
mockingly  down  to  the  end  of  the  passage. 

Then  on  an  instant  the  lights  went  out,  and  she 
was  in  complete  darkness.  She  gave  a  small,  fright 
ened  cry,  and  sank  down  into  a  cold  little  heap  on 
the  ice.  She  felt  her  left  knee  do  something  as  she 
fell,  but  she  scarcely  noticed  it  as  some  deep  terror 
far  greater  than  any  fear  of  being  lost  settled  upon 
her.  She  was  alone  with  this  presence  that  came 
out  of  the  North,  the  dreary  loneliness  that  rose 
from  ice-bound  whalers  in  the  Arctic  seas,  from 
smokeless,  trackless  wastes  where  were  strewn  the 
whitened  bones  of  adventure.  It  was  an  icy  breath 
of  death;  it  was  rolling  down  low  across  the  land  to 
clutch  at  her. 

With  a  furious,  despairing  energy  she  rose  again 
and  started  blindly  down  the  darkness.  She  must 
get  out.  She  might  be  lost  in  here  for  days,  freeze 
to  death  and  lie  embedded  hi  the  ice  like  corpses 
she  had  read  of,  kept  perfectly  preserved  until  the 
melting  of  a  glacier.  Harry  probably  thought  she 
had  left  with  the  others — he  had  gone  by  now;  no 
one  would  know  until  late  next  day.  She  reached 
pitifully  for  the  wall.  Forty  inches  thick,  they  had 
said — forty  inches  thick ! 

"Oh!" 

On  both  sides  of  her  along  the  walls  she  felt  things 
creeping,  damp  souls  that  haunted  this  palace,  this 
town,  this  North. 

"Oh,  send  somebody — send  somebody !"  she  cried 
aloud. 


84  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Clark  Darrow — he  would  understand;  or  Joe 
Ewing;  she  couldn't  be  left  here  to  wander  forever 
—to  be  frozen,  heart,  body,  and  soul.  This  her — 
this  Sally  Carrol!  Why,  she  was  a  happy  thing. 
She  was  a  happy  little  girl.  She  liked  warmth  and 
summer  and  Dixie.  These  things  were  foreign — 
foreign. 

"You're  not  crying,"  something  said  aloud. 
"You'll  never  cry  any  more.  Your  tears  would 
just  freeze;  all  tears  freeze  up  here!" 

She  sprawled  full  length  on  the  ice. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  faltered. 

A  long  single  file  of  minutes  went  by,  and  with  a 
great  weariness  she  felt  her  eyes  closing.  Then 
some  one  seemed  to  sit  down  near  her  and  take 
her  face  in  warm,  soft  hands.  She  looked  up  grate 
fully. 

"Why,  it's  Margery  Lee,"  she  crooned  softly  to 
herself.  "I  knew  you'd  come."  It  really  was 
Margery  Lee,  and  she  was  just  as  Sally  Carrol  had 
known  she  would  be,  with  a  young,  white  brow,  and 
wide,  welcoming  eyes,  and  a  hoop-skirt  of  some  soft 
material  that  was  quite  comforting  to  rest  on. 

"Margery  Lee." 

It  was  getting  darker  now  and  darker — all  those 
tombstones  ought  to  be  repainted,  sure  enough,  only 
that  would  spoil  'em,  of  course.  Still,  you  ought  to 
be  able  to  see  'em. 

Then  after  a  succession  of  moments  that  went 
fast  and  then  slow,  but  seemed  to  be  ultimately  re 
solving  themselves  into  a  multitude  of  blurred  rays 


THE  ICE  PALACE  85 

converging  toward  a  pale-yellow  sun,  she  heard  a 
great  cracking  noise  break  her  new-found  stillness. 

It  was  the  sun,  it  was  a  light;  a  torch,  and  a 
torch  beyond  that,  and  another  one,  and  voices;  a 
face  took  flesh  below  the  torch,  heavy  arms  raised 
her,  and  she  felt  something  on  her  cheek — it  felt  wet. 
Some  one  had  seized  her  and  was  rubbing  her  face 
with  snow.  How  ridiculous — with  snow ! 

"  Sally  Carrol !    Sally  Carrol ! " 

It  was  Dangerous  Dan  McGrew;  and  two  other 
faces  she  didn't  know. 

"Child,  child!  We've  been  looking  for  you  two 
hours !  Harry's  half -crazy ! " 

Things  came  rushing  back  into  place — the  sing 
ing,  the  torches,  the  great  shout  of  the  marching 
clubs.  She  squirmed  in  Patton's  arms  and  gave  a 
long  low  cry. 

"Oh,  I  want  to  get  out  of  here !  I'm  going  back 
home.  Take  me  home" — her  voice  rose  to  a  scream 
that  sent  a  chill  to  Harry's  heart  as  he  came  racing 
down  the  next  passage — "to-morrow!"  she  cried 
with  delirious,  unrestrained  passion — "To-morrow! 
To-morrow !  To-morrow ! " 

VI 

The  wealth  of  golden  sunlight  poured  a  quite 
enervating  yet  oddly  comforting  heat  over  the  house 
where  day  long  it  faced  the  dusty  stretch  of  road. 
Two  birds  were  making  a  great  to-do  in  a  cool  spot 
found  among  the  branches  of  a  tree  next  door,  and 


86  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

down  the  street  a  colored  woman  was  announcing 
herself  melodiously  as  a  purveyor  of  strawberries. 
It  was  April  afternoon. 

Sally  Carrol  Happer,  resting  her  chin  on  her  arm, 
and  her  arm  on  an  old  window-seat,  gazed  sleepily 
down  over  the  spangled  dust  whence  the  heat  waves 
were  rising  for  the  first  time  this  spring.  She  was 
watching  a  very  ancient  Ford  turn  a  perilous  corner 
and  rattle  and  groan  to  a  jolting  stop  at  the  end  of 
the  walk.  She  made  no  sound,  and  in  a  minute  a 
strident  familiar  whistle  rent  the  air.  Sally  Carrol 
smiled  and  blinked. 

"Good  mawnin'." 

A  head  appeared  tortuously  from  under  the  car- 
top  below. 

"Tain't  mawnin',  Sally  Carrol." 

"Sure  enough!"  she  said  in  affected  surprise. 
"I  guess  maybe  not." 

"What  you  doin'?" 

"Eatin'  green  peach.     'Spect  to  die  any  minute." 

Clark  twisted  himself  a  last  impossible  notch  to 
get  a  view  of  her  face. 

"Water's  warm  as  a  kettla  steam,  Sally  Carrol. 
Wanta  go  swimmin'?" 

"Hate  to  move,"  sighed  Sally  Carrol  lazily,  "but 
I  reckon  so." 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS 

IN  1915  Horace  Tarbox  was  thirteen  years  old.  In 
that  year  he  took  the  examinations  for  entrance  to 
Princeton  University  and  received  the  Grade  A — 
excellent — in  Caesar,  Cicero,  Vergil,  Xenophon, 
Homer,  Algebra,  Plane  Geometry,  Solid  Geometry, 
and  Chemistry. 

Two  years  later,  while  George  M.  Cohan  was 
composing  "Over  There,"  Horace  was  leading  the 
sophomore  class  by  several  lengths  and  digging  out 
theses  on  "The  Syllogism  as  an  Obsolete  Scholastic 
Form,"  and  during  the  battle  of  Chateau-Thierry 
he  was  sitting  at  his  desk  deciding  whether  or  not 
to  wait  until  his  seventeenth  birthday  before  begin 
ning  his  series  of  essays  on  "The  Pragmatic  Bias  of 
the  New  Realists." 

After  a  while  some  newsboy  told  him  that  the 
war  was  over,  and  he  was  glad,  because  it  meant 
that  Peat  Brothers,  publishers,  would  get  out  their 
new  edition  of  "Spinoza's  Improvement  of  the  Un 
derstanding."  Wars  were  all  very  well  in  their 
way,  made  young  men  self-reliant  or  something, 
but  Horace  felt  that  he  could  never  forgive  the 
President  for  allowing  a  brass  band  to  play  under 
his  window  on  the  night  of  the  false  armistice,  causing 
him  to  leave  three  important  sentences  out  of  his 
thesis  on  "German  Idealism." 

87 


88  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

The  next  year  he  went  up  to  Yale  to  take  his 
degree  as  Master  of  Arts. 

He  was  seventeen  then,  tall  and  slender,  with 
near-sighted  gray  eyes  and  an  air  of  keeping  himself 
utterly  detached  from  the  mere  words  he  let  drop. 

"I  never  feel  as  though  I'm  talking  to  him," 

expostulated  Professor  Dillinger  to  a  sympathetic 

I  colleague.     "He  makes  me  feel  as  though  I  were 

!  talking  to  his  representative.    I  always  expect  him 

to  say:  'Well,  I'll  ask  myself  and  find  out.'" 

And  then,  just  as  nonchalantly  as  though  Horace 
Tarbox  had  been  Mr.  Beef  the  butcher  or  Mr.  Hat 
the  haberdasher,  life  reached  in,  seized  him,  handled 
him,  stretched  him,  and  unrolled  him  like  a  piece 
of  Irish  lace  on  a  Saturday-afternoon  bargain -counter. 

To  move  in  the  literary  fashion  I  should  say  that 
this  was  all  because  when  way  back  in  colonial  days 
the  hardy  pioneers  had  come  to  a  bald  place  in 
Connecticut  and  asked  of  each  other,  "Now,  what 
shall  we  build  here?"  the  hardiest  one  among  'em 
had  answered:  "Let's  build  a  town  where  theatrical 
managers  can  try  out  musical  comedies  I"  How 
afterward  they  founded  Yale  College  there,  to  try 
the  musical  comedies  on,  is  a  story  every  one  knows. 
At  any  rate  one  December,  "Home  James"  opened  at 
the  Shubert,  and  all  the  students  encored  Marcia 
Meadow,  who  sang  a  song  about  the  Blundering 
Blimp  in  the  first  act  and  did  a  shaky,  shivery, 
celebrated  dance  in  the  last. 

Marcia  was  nineteen.  She  didn't  have  wings, 
but  audiences  agreed  generally  that  she  didn't  need 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  89 

them.  She  was  a  blonde  by  natural  pigment,  and 
she  wore  no  paint  on  the  streets  at  high  noon.  Out 
side  of  that  she  was  no  better  than  most  women. 

It  was  Charlie  Moon  who  promised  her  five  thou 
sand  Pall  Malls  if  she  would  pay  a  call  on  Horace 
Tarbox,  prodigy  extraordinary.  Charlie  was  a 
senior  in  Sheffield,  and  he  and  Horace  were  first 
cousins.  They  liked  and  pitied  each  other. 

Horace  had  been  particularly  busy  that  night. 
The  failure  of  the  Frenchman  Laurier  to  appreciate 
the  significance  of  the  new  realists  was  preying  on 
his  mind.  In  fact,  his  only  reaction  to  a  low,  clear- 
cut  rap  at  his  study  was  to  make  him  speculate  as 
to  whether  any  rap  would  have  actual  existence 
without  an  ear  there  to  hear  it.  He  fancied  he  was 
verging  more  and  more  toward  pragmatism.  But 
at  that  moment,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  he 
was  verging  with  astounding  rapidity  toward  some 
thing  quite  different. 

The  rap  sounded — three  seconds  leaked  by — the 
rap  sounded. 

"Come  in,"  muttered  Horace  automatically. 

He  heard  the  door  open  and  then  close,  but,  bent 
over  his  book  in  the  big  armchair  before  the  fire, 
he  did  not  look  up. 

"  Leave  it  on  the  bed  in  the  other  room,"  he  said 
absently. 

"Leave  what  on  the  bed  in  the  other  room?" 

Marcia  Meadow  had  to  talk  her  songs,  but  her 
speaking  voice  was  like  byplay  on  a  harp. 

"The  laundry." 


90  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

" I  can't." 

Horace  stirred  impatiently  in  his  chair. 

" Why  can't  you?" 

"Why,  because  I  haven't  got  it." 

"Hm!"  he  replied  testily.  "Suppose  you  go 
back  and  get  it." 

Across  the  fire  from  Horace  was  another  easy- 
chair.  He  was  accustomed  to  change  to  it  in  the 
course  of  an  evening  by  way  of  exercise  and  variety. 
One  chair  he  called  Berkeley,  the  other  he  called 
Hume.  He  suddenly  heard  a  sound  as  of  a  rustling, 
diaphanous  form  sinking  into  Hume.  He  glanced 
up. 

"Well,"  said  Marcia  with  the  sweet  smile  she  used 
in  Act  Two  ("Oh,  so  the  Duke  liked  my  dancing !"), 
"Well,  Omar  Khayyam,  here  I  am  beside  you 
singing  in  the  wilderness." 

Horace  stared  at  her  dazedly.  The  momentary 
suspicion  came  to  him  that  she  existed  there  only 
as  a  phantom  of  his  imagination.  Women  didn't 
come  into  men's  rooms  and  sink  into  men's  Humes. 
Women  brought  laundry  and  took  your  seat  in  the 
street-car  and  married  you  later  on  when  you  were 
old  enough-  to  know  .fetters. 

This  woman  had  clearly  materialized  out  of 
Hume.  The  very  froth  of  her  brown  gauzy  dress 
was  an  emanation  from  Hume's  leather  arm  there ! 
If  he  looked  long  enough  he  would  see  Hume  right 
through  her  and  then  he  would  be  alone  again  in 
the  room.  He  passed  his  fist  across  his  eyes.  He 
really  must  take  up  those  trapeze  exercises  again. 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  91 

"For  Pete's  sake,  don't  look  so  critical !"  ob 
jected  the  emanation  pleasantly.  "I  feel  as  if  you 
were  going  to  wish  me  away  with  that  patent  dome 
of  yours.  And  then  there  wouldn't  be  anything 
left  of  me  except  my  shadow  in  your  eyes." 

Horace  coughed.  Coughing  was  one  of  his  two 
gestures.  When  he  talked  you  forgot  he  had  a 
body  at  all.  It  was  like  hearing  a  phonograph 
record  by  a  singer  who  had  been  dead  a  long  time. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  them  letters,"  whined  Marcia  melodra 
matically — "them  letters  of  mine  you  bought  from 
my  grandsire  in  1881." 

Horace  considered. 

"I  haven't  got  your  letters,"  he  said  evenly.  "I 
am  only  seventeen  years  old.  My  father  was  not 
born  until  March  3,  1879.  You  evidently  have  me 
confused  with  some  one  else." 

"You're  only  seventeen?"  repeated  Marcia  sus 
piciously. 

"Only  seventeen." 

"I  knew  a  girl,"  said  Marcia  reminiscently,  "who 
went  on  the  ten-twenty-thirty  when  she  was  sixteen. 
She  was  so  stuck  on  herself  that  she  could  never 
say  *  sixteen'  without  putting  the  'only'  before  it. 
We  got  to  calling  her  'Only  Jessie.'  And  she's  just 
where  she  was  when  she  started — only  worse. 
'Only'  is  a  bad  habit,  Omar — it  sounds  like  an 
alibi." 

"My  name  is  not  Omar." 

"I  know,"  agreed  Marcia,  nodding — "your  name's 


92  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Horace.  I  just  call  you  Omar  because  you  remind 
me  of  a  smoked  cigarette." 

"And  I  haven't  your  letters.  I  doubt  if  I've 
ever  met  your  grandfather.  In  fact,  I  think  it 
very  improbable  that  you  yourself  were  alive  in 
1881." 

Marcia  stared  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  Me — 1881  ?  Why  sure !  I  was  second-line  stuff 
when  the  Florodora  Sextette  was  still  in  the  con 
vent.  I  was  the  original  nurse  to  Mrs.  Sol  Smith's 
Juliette.  Why,  Omar,  I  was  a  canteen  singer  during 
the  War  of  1812." 

Horace's  mind  made  a  sudden  successful  leap,  and 
he  grinned. 

"Did  Charlie  Moon  put  you  up  to  this?" 

Marcia  regarded  him  inscrutably. 

"Who's  Charlie  Moon?" 

"Small — wide  nostrils — big  ears." 

She  grew  several  inches  and  sniffed. 

"I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  noticing  my  friends' 
nostrils." 

"Then  it  was  Charlie?" 

Marcia  bit  her  lip — and  then  yawned. 

"Oh,  let's  change  the  subject,  Omar.  I'll  pull  a 
snore  in  this  chair  in  a  minute." 

"Yes,"  replied  Horace  gravely,  "Hume  has  often 
been  considered  soporific." 

"Who's  your  friend — and  will  he  die?" 

Then  of  a  sudden  Horace  Tarbox  rose  slenderly 
and  began  to  pace  the  room  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  This  was  his  other  gesture. 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  93 

"I  don't  care  for  this,"  he  said  as  if  he  were  talk 
ing  to  himself — "at  all.  Not  that  I  mind  your 
being  here — I  don't.  You're  quite  a  pretty  little 
thing,  but  I  don't  like  Charlie  Moon's  sending  you 
up  here.  Am  I  a  laboratory  experiment  on  which 
the  janitors  as  well  as  the  chemists  can  make  experi 
ments?  Is  my  intellectual  development  humorous 
in  any  way?  Do  I  look  like  the  pictures  of  the 
little  Boston  boy  in  the  comic  magazines?  Has  that 
callow  ass,  Moon,  with  his  eternal  tales  about  his 
weeTTin  l^aris,  any  right  to "  . 

"No,"  interrupted  Marcia  emphatically.  "And 
you're  a  sweet  boy.  Come  here  and  kiss  me." 

Horace  stopped  quickly  in  front  of  her. 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to  kiss  you?"  he  asked 
intently.  "Do  you  just  go  round  kissing  people?" 

"Why,  yes,"  admitted  Marcia,  unruffled.  "'At's 
all  life  is.  Just  going  round  kissing  people." 

"Well,"  replied  Horace  emphatically,  "I  must  say 
your  ideas  are  horribly  garbled !  In  the  first  place 
life  isn't  just  that,  and  in  the  second  place  I  won't 
kiss  you.  It  might  get  to  be  a  habit  and  I  can't 
get  rid  of  habits.  This  year  I've  got  in  the  habit 
of  lolling  in  bed  until  seven-thirty." 

Marcia  nodded  understandingly. 

"Do  you  ever  have  any  fun?"  she  asked. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  fun?" 

"See  here,"  said  Marcia  sternly,  "I  like  you, 
Omar,  but  I  wish  you'd  talk  as  if  you  had  a  line  on 
what  you  were  saying.  You  sound  as  if  you  were 
gargling  a  lot  of  words  in  your  mouth  and  lost  a 


\r 


94  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

bet  every  time  you  spilled  a  few.  I  asked  you  if 
you  ever  had  any  fun." 

Horace  shook  his  head. 

"Later,  perhaps,"  he  answered.  "You  see  I'm 
a  plan.  I'm  an  experiment.  I  don't  say  that  I 
don't  get  tired  of  it  sometimes — I  do.  Yet — oh,  I 
can't  explain !  But  what  you  and  Charlie  Moon 
call  fun  wouldn't  be  fun  to  me." 

"Please  explain." 

Horace  stared  at  her,  started  to  speak  and  then, 
changing  his  mind,  resumed  his  walk.  After  an  un 
successful  attempt  to  determine  whether  or  not  he 
was  looking  at  her  Marcia  smiled  at  him. 

"Please  explain." 

Horace  turned. 

"If  I  do,  will  you  promise  to  tell  Charlie  Moon 
that  I  wasn't  in?" 

"Uh-uh." 

"Very  well,  then.  Here's  my  history:  I  was  a 
'why'  child.  I  wanted  to  see  lie  wheels  go  round. 
My  father  was  a  young  economics  professor  at 
Princeton.  He  brought  me  up  on  the  system  of 
answering  every  question  I  asked  him  to  the  best 
of  his  ability.  My  response  to  that  gave  him  the 
idea  of  making  an  experiment  in  precocity.  To 
aid  hi  the  massacre  I  had  ear  trouble — seven  opera 
tions  between  the  ages  of  nine  and  twelve.  Of  course 
this  kept  me  apart  from  other  boys  and  made  me 
ripe  for  forcing.  Anyway,  while  my  generation  was 
laboring  through  Uncle  Remus  I  was  honestly  en 
joying  Catullus  in  the  original. 


HEAD  AND   SHOULDERS  95 

"I  passed  off  my  college  examinations  when  I 
was  thirteen  because  I  couldn't  help  it.  My  chief 
associates  were  professors,  and  I  took  a  tremendous 
pride  in  knowing  that  I  had  a  fine  intelligence,  for 
though  I  was  unusually  gifted  I  was  not  abnormal 
in  other  ways.  When  I  was  sixteen  I  got  tired  of 
being  a  freak;  I  decided  that  some  one  had  made  a 
bad  mistake.  Still  as  I'd  gone  that  far  I  concluded 
to  finish  it  up  by  taking  my  degree  of  Master  of 
Arts.  My  chief  interest  in  life  is  the  study  of  mod 
ern  philosophy.  I  am  a  realist  of  the  School  of 
Anton  Laurier — with  Bergsonian  trimmings — and 
I'll  be  eighteen  years  old  in  two  months.  That's 
all." 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  Marcia.  "That's  enough! 
You  do  a  neat  job  with  the  parts  of  speech." 

"Satisfied?" 

"No,  you  haven't  kissed  me." 

"It's  not  in  my  programme,"  demurred  Horace. 
"Understand  that  I  don't  pretend  Ticf  be  above 
physical  things.  They  have  their  place,  but " 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  darned  reasonable!" 

"I  can't  help  it." 

"I  hate  these  slot-machine  people." 

"I  assure  you  I — "  began  Horace. 

"Oh,  shut  up!" 

"My  own  rationality " 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  your  nationality. 
You're  an  Amuricun,  ar'n't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  that's  O.  K.  with  me.    I  got  a  notion  I 


96  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

want  to  see  you  do  something  that  isn't  in  your 
highbrow  programme.  I  want  to  see  if  a  what-ch- 
call-em  with  Brazilian  trimmings — that  thing  you 
said  you  were — can  be  a  little  human." 

Horace  shook  his  head  again. 

"I  won't  kiss  you." 

"My  life  is  blighted,"  muttered  Marcia  tragically. 
"I'm  a  beaten  woman.  I'll  go  through  life  without 
ever  having  a  kiss  with  Brazilian  trimmings."  She 
sighed.  "Anyways,  Omar,  will  you  come  and  see 
my  show?" 

"What  show?" 

"I'm  a  wicked  actress  from  'Home  James' !" 

"Light  opera?" 

"Yes — at  a  stretch.  One  of  the  characters  is  a 
Brazilian  rice-planter.  That  might  interest  you." 

"I  saw  'The  Bohemian  Girl'  once,"  reflected 
Horace  aloud.  "I  enjoyed  it — to  some  extent." 

"Then  you'll  come?" 

"Well,  I'm— I'm " 

"Oh,  I  know — you've  got  to  run  down  to  Brazil 
for  the  week-end." 

"Not  at  all.    I'd  be  delighted  to  come." 

Marcia  clapped  her  hands. 

"Goodyforyou!  I'll  mail  you  a  ticket — Thurs 
day  night?" 

"Why,  I " 

"  Good !    Thursday  night  it  is." 

She  stood  up  and  walking  close  to  him  laid  both 
hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"I  like  you,  Omar.    I'm  sorry  I  tried  to  kid  you. 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  97 

I  thought  you'd  be  sort  of  frozen,  but  you're  a  nice 
boy." 

He  eyed  her  sardonically. 

"I'm  several  thousand  generations  older  than  you 
are." 

"You  carry  your  age  well." 

They  shook  hands  gravely. 

"My  name's  Marcia  Meadow,"  she  said  em 
phatically.  "'Member  it — Marcia  Meadow.  And 
I  won't  tell  Charlie  Moon  you  were  in." 

An  instant  later  as  she  was  skimming  down  the 
last  flight  of  stairs  three  at  a  time  she  heard  a  voice 
call  over  the  upper  banister:  "Oh,  say " 

She  stopped  and  looked  up — made  out  a  vague 
form  leaning  over. 

"Oh,  say!"  called  the  prodigy  again.  "Can  you 
hear  me?" 

"Here's  your  connection,  Omar." 

"I  hope  I  haven't  given  you  the  impression  that 
I  consider  kissing  intrinsically  irrational." 

"Impression?  Why,  you  didn't  even  give  me 
the  kiss !  Never  fret — so  long." 

Two  doors  near  her  opened  curiously  at  the 
sound  of  a  feminine  voice.  A  tentative  cough 
sounded  from  above.  Gathering  her  skirts,  Marcia 
dived  wildly  down  the  last  flight,  and  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  murky  Connecticut  air  outside. 

Up-stairs  Horace  paced  the  floor  of  his  study. 
From  time  to  time  he  glanced  toward  Berkeley  wait 
ing  there  in  suave  dark-red  respectability,  an  open 
book  lying  suggestively  on  his  cushions.  And  then 


g8  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

he  found  that  his  circuit  of  the  floor  was  bringing 
him  each  tune  nearer  to  Hume.  There  was  some 
thing  about  Hume  that  was  strangely  and  inex 
pressibly  different.  The  diaphanous  form  still 
seemed  hovering  near,  and  had  Horace  sat  there  he 
would  have  felt  as  if  he  were  sitting  on  a  lady's 
lap.  And  though  Horace  couldn't  have  named  the 
quality  of  difference,  there  was  such  a  quality — 
quite  intangible  to  the  speculative  mind,  but  real, 
nevertheless.  Hume  was  radiating  something  that 
in  all  the  two  hundred  years  of  his  influence  he  had 
never  radiated  before. 
Hume  was  radiating  attar  of  roses. 

•% 

II 

On  Thursday  night  Horace  Tarbox  sat  in  an 
aisle  seat  in  the  fifth  row  and  witnessed  "Home 
James."  Oddly  enough  he  found  that  he  was  en 
joying  himself .  The  cynical  students  near  him  were 
annoyed  at  his  audible  appreciation  of  tune-honored 
jokes  in  the  Hammerstein  tradition.  But  Horace 
was  waiting  with  anxiety  for  Marcia  Meadow  sing 
ing  her  song  about  a  Jazz-bound  Blundering  Blimp. 
When  she  did  appear,  radiant  under  a  floppity 
flower-faced  hat,  a  warm  glow  settled  over  him,  and 
when  the  song  was  over  he  did  not  join  in  the  storm 
of  applause.  He  felt  somewhat  numb. 

In  the  intermission  after  the  second  act  an  usher 
materialized  beside  him,  demanded  to  know  if  he 
were  Mr.  Tarbox,  and  then  handed  him  a  note 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  99 

written  in  a  round  adolescent  hand.  Horace  read 
it  in  some  confusion,  while  the  usher  lingered  with 
withering  patience  in  the  aisle. 

"DEAR  OMAR:    After  the  show  I  always  grow  an 
awful  hunger.     If  you  want  to  satisfy  it  for  me  in 
the  Taf t  Grill  just  communicate  your  answer  to  the 
big-timber  guide  that  brought  this  and  oblige. 
Your  friend, 

MARCIA  MEADOW." 

"TeB  her "— he  coughed— "  tell  her  that  it  will 
be  quite  all  right.  I'll  meet  her  in  front  of  the 
theatre." 

The  big-timber  guide  smiled  arrogantly. 

"I  giss  she  meant  for  you  to  come  roun'  t'  the 
stage  door." 

"Where— where  is  it?" 

"Ou'side.    Tunayulef.    Down  ee  alley." 

"What?" 

"Ou'side.    Turn  to  y'  left !    Down  ee  alley !" 

The  arrogant  person  withdrew.  A  freshman  be 
hind  Horace  snickered. 

Then  half  an  hour  later,  sitting  in  the  Taft  Grill 
opposite  the  hair  that  was  yellow  by  natural  pig 
ment,  the  prodigy  was  saying  an  odd  thing. 

"Do  you  have  to  do  that  dance  in  the  last  act?" 
he  was  asking  earnestly — "I  mean,  would  they  dis 
miss  you  if  you  refused  to  do  it?" 

Marcia  grinned. 

"It's  fun  to  do  it.     I  like  to  do  it." 


100  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

And  then  Horace  came  out  with  a  faux  pas. 

"I  should  think  you'd  detest  it,"  he  remarked 
succinctly.  "The  people  behind  me  were  making 
remarks  about  your  bosom." 

Marcia  blushed  fiery  red. 

"I  can't  help  that,"  she  said  quickly.  "The 
dance  to  me  is  only  a  sort  of  acrobatic  stunt.  Lord, 
it's  hard  enough  to  do!  I  rub  liniment  into  my 
shoulders  for  an  hour  every  night." 

"Do  you  have — fun  while  you're  on  the  stage?" 

"Uh-huh — sure!  I  got  hi  the  habit  of  having 
people  look  at  me,  Omar,  and  I  like  it." 

"Hm !"    Horace  sank  into  a  brownish  study. 

"How's  the  Brazilian  trimmings?" 

"Hm!"  repeated  Horace,  and  then  after  a  pause: 
"Where  does  the  play  go  from  here?" 

"New  York." 

"For  how  long?" 

"All  depends.    Winter — maybe." 

"Oh!" 

"Coming  up  to  lay  eyes  on  me,  Omar,  or  aren't 
you  int'rested?  Not  as  nice  here,  is  it,  as  it  was 
up  in  your  room?  I  wish  we  was  there  now." 

"I  feel  idiotic  in  this  place,"  confessed  Horace, 
looking  round  him  nervously. 

"Too  bad !    We  got  along  pretty  well." 

At  this  he  looked  suddenly  so  melancholy  that 
she  changed  her  tone,  and  reaching  over  patted  his 
hand. 

"Ever  take  an  actress  out  to  supper  before?" 

"No,"  said  Horace  miserably,  "and  I  never  will 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  101 

again.  I  don't  know  why  I  came  to-night.  Here 
under  all  these  lights  and  with  all  these  people 
laughing  and  chattering  I  feel  completely  out  of 
my  sphere.  I  don't  know  what  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

"We'll  talk  about  me.  We  talked  about  you 
last  time." 

"Very  well." 

"Well,  my  name  really  is  Meadow,  but  my  first 
name  isn't  Marcia — it's  Veronica.  I'm  nineteen. 
Question — how  did  the  girl  make  her  leap  to  the 
footlights?  Answer — she  was  born  in  Passaic,  New 
Jersey,  and  up  to  a  year  ago  she  got  the  right  to 
breathe  by  pushing  Nabiscoes  in  Marcel's  tea-room 
in  Trenton.  She  started  going  with  a  guy  named 
Robbins,  a  singer  in  the  Trent  House  cabaret,  and 
he  got  her  to  try  a  song  and  dance  with  him  one 
evening.  In  a  month  we  were  filling  the  supper- 
room  every  night.  Then  we  went  to  New  York  with 
meet-my-friend  letters  thick  as  a  pile  of  napkins. 

"In  two  days  we'd  landed  a  job  at  Divinerries', 
and  I  learned  to  shimmy  from  a  kid  at  the  Palais 
Royal.  We  stayed  at  Divinerries'  six  months  until 
one  night  Peter  Boyce  Wendell,  the  columnist,  ate 
his  milk -toast  there.  Next  morning  a  poem  about 
Marvellous  Marcia  came  out  in  his  newspaper,  and 
within  two  days  I  had  three  vaudeville  offers  and 
a  chance  at  the  Midnight  Frolic.  I  wrote  Wendell 
a  thank-you  letter,  and  he  printed  it  in  his  column 
— said  that  the  style  was  like  Carlyle's,  only  more 
rugged,  and  that  I  ought  to  quit  dancing  and  do 


102  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

North  American  literature.  This  got  me  a  coupla 
more  vaudeville  offers  and  a  chance  as  aixJngenue 
in  a  regular  show.  I  took  it — and  here  I  am, 
Omar." 

When  she  finished  they  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
she  draping  the  last  skeins  of  a  Welsh  rabbit  on  her 
fork  and  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"Let's  get  out  of  here,"  he  said  suddenly. 

Marcia's  eyes  hardened. 

"What's  the  idea?    Am  I  making  you  sick?" 

"No,  but  I  don't  like  it  here.  I  don't  like  to  be 
sitting  here  with  you." 

Without  another  word  Marcia  signalled  for  the 
waiter. 

"What's  the  check?"  she  demanded  briskly. 
"My  part — the  rabbit  and  the  ginger  ale." 

Horace  watched  blankly  as  the  waiter  figured  it. 

"See  here,"  he  began,  "I  intended  to  pay  for 
yours  too.  You're  my  guest." 

With  a  half -sigh  Marcia  rose  from  the  table  and 
walked  from  the  room.  Horace,  his  face  a  docu 
ment  in  bewilderment,  laid  a  bill  down  and  followed 
her  out,  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  lobby.  He  over 
took  her  in  front  of  the  elevator  and  they  faced 
each  other. 

"See  here,"  he  repeated,  "you're  my  guest.  Have 
I  said  something  to  offend  you?" 

After  an  instant  of  wonder  Marcia's  eyes  soft 
ened.  » 

"You're  a  rude  fella,"  she  said  slowly.  "Don't 
you  know  you're  rude?" 


HEAD  AND   SHOULDERS  103 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Horace  with  a  directness 
she  found  quite  disarming.  "  You  know  I  like  you." 

"You  said  you  didn't  like  being  with  me." 

"I  didn't  like  it." 

"Why  not?" 

Fire  blazed  suddenly  from  the  gray  forests  of  his 
eyes. 

"Because  I  didn't.  I've  formed  the  habit  of 
liking  you.  I've  been  thinking  of  nothing  much 
else  for  two  days." 

"Well,  if  you " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  interrupted.  "I've  got 
something  to  say.  It's  this:  in  six  weeks  I'll  be 
eighteen  years  old.  When  I'm  eighteen  years  old 
I'm  coming  up  to  New  York  to  see  you.  Is  there 
some  place  in  New  York  where  we  can  go  and  not 
have  a  lot  of  people  in  the  room?" 

"Sure!"  smiled  Marcia.  "You  can  come  up  to 
my  'partment.  Sleep  on  the  couch,  if  you  want  to." 

"I  can't  sleep  on  couches,"  he  said  shortly.  "But 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Why,  sure,"  repeated  Marcia — "in  my  'part 
ment." 

In  his  excitement  Horace  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"All  right — just  so  I  can  see  you  alone.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  as  we  talked  up  in  my  room." 

"Honey  boy,"  cried  Marcia,  laughing,  "is  it  that 
you  want  to  kiss  me?" 

"Yes,"  Horace  almost  shouted.  "I'll  kiss  you  if 
you  want  me  to." 


104  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

The  elevator  man  was  looking  at  them  reproach 
fully.  Marcia  edged  toward  the  grated  door. 

"I'll  drop  you  a  post-card/'  she  said. 

Horace's  eyes  were  quite  wild. 

"Send  me  a  post-card!  I'll  come  up  any  time 
after  January  first.  I'll  be  eighteen  then." 

And  as  she  stepped  into  the  elevator  he  coughed 
enigmatically,  yet  with  a  vague  challenge,  at  the 
ceiling,  and  walked  quickly  away. 

Ill 

He  was  there  again.  She  saw  him  when  she  took 
her  first  glance  at  the  restless  Manhattan  audience 
— down  in  the  front  row  with  his  head  bent  a  bit 
forward  and  his  gray  eyes  fixed  on  her.  And  she 
knew  that  to  him  they  were  alone  together  in  a 
world  where  the  high-rouged  row  of  ballet  faces  and 
the  massed  whines  of  the  violins  were  as  imperceiva- 
ble  as  powder  on  a  marble  Venus.  An  instinctive 
defiance  rose  within  her. 

"Silly  boy!"  she  said  to  herself  hurriedly,  and 
she  didn't  take  her  encore. 

"What  do  they  expect  for  a  hundred  a  week — 
perpetual  motion?"  she  grumbled  to  herself  hi  the 
wings. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Marcia?" 

"Guy  I  don't  like  down  in  front." 

During  the  last  act  as  she  waited  for  her  specialty 
she  had  an  odd  attack  of  stage  fright.  She  had 
never  sent  Horace  the  promised  post-card.  Last 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  105 

night  she  had  pretended  not  to  see  him — had  hurried 
from  the  theatre  immediately  after  her  dance  to 
pass  a  sleepless  night  in  her  apartment,  thinking — 
as  she  had  so  often  in  the  last  month — of  his  pale, 
rather  intent  face,  his  slim,  boyish  figure,  the  merci 
less,  unworldly  abstraction  that  made  him  charming 
to  her. 

And  now  that  he  had  come  she  felt  vaguely  sorry  < 
—as  though  an  unwonted  responsibility  was  being 
forced  on  her. 

"Infant  prodigy!"  she  said  aloud. 

"What?"  demanded  the  negro  comedian  stand 
ing  beside  her. 

"Nothing — just  talking  about  myself." 

On  the  stage  she  felt  better.  This  was  her  dance 
— and  she  always  felt  that  the  way  she  did  it  wasn't 
suggestive  any  more  than  to  some  men  every  pretty 
girl  is  suggestive.  She  made  it  a  stunt. 

"Uptown,  downtown,  jelly  on  a  spoon, 
After  sundown  shiver  by  the  moon." 

He  was  not  watching  her  now.  She  saw  that 
clearly.  He  was  looking  very  deliberately  at  a 
castle  on  the  back  drop,  wearing  that  expression  he 
had  worn  in  the  Taft  Grill.  A  wave  of  exasperation 
swept  over  her — he  was  criticising  her. 

"That's  the  vibration  that  thr-ills  me, 
Funny  how  affection  fi-lls  me, 
Uptown,  downtown " 


io6          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Unconquerable  revulsion  seized  her.  She  was 
suddenly  and  horribly  conscious  of  her  audience  as 
she  had  never  been  since  her  first  appearance.  Was 
that  a  leer  on  a  pallid  face  in  the  front  row,  a  droop 
of  disgust  on  one  young  girl's  mouth?  These  shoul 
ders  of  hers — these  shoulders  shaking — were  they 
hers?  Were  they  real?  Surely  shoulders  weren't 
made  for  this ! 

"Then — you'll  see  at  a  glance 
I'll  need  some  funeral  ushers  with  St.  Vitus  dance 
At  the  end  of  the  world  I'll " 

The  bassoon  and  two  cellos  crashed  into  a  final 
chord.  She  paused  and  poised  a  moment  on  her 
toes  with  every  muscle  tense,  her  young  face  look 
ing  out  dully  at  the  audience  in  what  one  young 
girl  afterward  called  "such  a  curious,  puzzled  look," 
and  then  without  bowing  rushed  from  the  stage. 
Into  the  dressing-room  she  sped,  kicked  out  of  one 
dress  and  into  another,  and  caught  a  taxi  outside. 

Her  apartment  was  very  warm — small,  it  was, 
with  a  row  of  professional  pictures  and  sets  of  Kip 
ling  and  O.  Henry  which  she  had  bought  once  from 
a  blue-eyed  agent  and  read  occasionally.  And  there 
were  several  chairs  which  matched,  but  were  none  of 
them  comfortable,  and  a  pink-shaded  lamp  with 
blackbirds  painted  on  it  and  an  atmosphere  of  rather 
stifled  pink  throughout.  There  were  nice  things  in 
it — nice  things  unrelentingly  hostile  to  each  other, 
offsprings  of  a  vicarious,  impatient  taste  acting  in 
stray  moments.  The  worst  was  typified  by  a  great 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  107 

picture  framed  in  oak  bark  of  Passaic  as  seen  from 
the  Erie  Railroad — altogether  a  frantic,  oddly  ex 
travagant,  oddly  jgeniicious  attempt  to  make  a  cheer 
ful  room.  Marcia  knew  it  was  a  failure. 

Into  this  room  came  the  prodigy  and  took  her 
two  hands  awkwardly. 

"I  followed  you  this  tune,"  he  said. 

"Oh!" 

"I  want  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said. 

Her  arms  went  out  to  him.  She  kissed  his  mouth 
with  a  sort  of  passionate  wholesomeness. 

"There!" 

"I  love  you,"  he  said. 

She  kissed  him  again  and  then  with  a  little  sigh 
flung  herself  into  an  armchair  and  half  lay  there, 
shaken  with  absurd  laughter. 

"Why,  you  infant  prodigy!"  she  cried. 

"Very  well,  call  me  that  if  you  want  to.  I  once 
told  you  that  I  was  ten  thousand  years  older  than 
you — I  am." 

She  laughed  again. 

"I  don't  like  to  be  disapproved  of." 

"No  one's  ever  going  to  disapprove  of  you  again." 

"Omar,"  she  asked,  "why  do  you  want  to  marry 
me?" 

The  prodigy  rose  and  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Because  I  love  you,  Marcia  Meadow." 

And  then  she  stopped  calling  him  Omar. 

"Dear  boy,"  she  said,  "you  know  I  sort  of  love 
you.  There's  something  about  you — I  can't  tell 
what — that  just  puts  my  heart  through  the  wringer 


io8  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

every  time  I'm  round  you.  But,  honey — "  She 
paused. 

"But  what?" 

"But  lots  of  things.  But  you're  only  just  eigh 
teen,  and  I'm  nearly  twenty." 

"Nonsense!"  he  interrupted.  "Put  it  this  way 
— that  I'm  in  my  nineteenth  year  and  you're  nine 
teen.  That  makes  us  pretty  close — without  count 
ing  that  other  ten  thousand  years  I  mentioned." 

Marcia  laughed. 

"But  there  are  some  more  'buts.'  Your  peo- 
pie » 

"My  people!"  exclaimed  the  prodigy  ferociously. 
"My  people  tried  to  make  a  monstrosity  out  of  me." 
His  face  grew  quite  crimson  at  the  enormity  of  what 
he  was  going  to  say.  "My  people  can  go  way  back 
and  sit  down!" 

"My  heavens!"  cried  Marcia  in  alarm.  "All 
that?  On  tacks,  I  suppose." 

"Tacks — yes,"  he  agreed  wildly — "on  anything. 
The  more  I  think  of  how  they  allowed  me  to  become 
a  little  dried-up  mummy " 

"What  makes  you  think  you're  that?"  asked 
Marcia  quietly — "me?" 

"Yes.  Every  person  I've  met  on  the  streets  since 
I  met  you  has  made  me  jealous  because  they  knew 
what  love  was  before  I  did.  I  used  to  call  it  the 
'  sex  impulse. '  Heavens ! ' ' 

"There's  more  'buts,'"  said  Marcia. 

"What  are  they?" 

"How  could  we  live?" 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  109 

"I'll  make  a  living." 

"  You're  in  college. " 

"Do  you  think  I  care  anything  about  taking  a 
Master  of  Arts  degree?" 

"You  want  to  be  Master  of  Me,  hey?" 

"Yes!    What?    I  mean,  no!" 

Marcia  laughed,  and  crossing  swiftly  over  sat  hi 
his  lap.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  wildly  and  im 
planted  the  vestige  of  a  kiss  somewhere  near  her 
neck. 

"There's  something  white  about  you,"  mused 
Marcia,  "but  it  doesn't  sound  very  logical." 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  darned  reasonable!" 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Marcia. 

"I  hate  these  slot-machine  people!" 

"But  we " 

"Oh,  shut  up!" 

And  as  Marcia  couldn't  talk  through  her  ears 
she  had  to. 

IV 

Horace  and  Marcia  were  married  early  in  Feb 
ruary.  The  sensation  in  academic  circles  both  at 
Yale  and  Princeton  was  tremendous.  Horace  Tar- 
box,  who  at  fourteen  had  been  played  up  in  the 
Sunday  magazines  sections  of  metropolitan  news 
papers,  was  throwing  over  his  career,  his  chance  of 
being  a  world  authority  on  American  philosophy, 
by  marrying  a  chorus  girl — they  made  Marcia  a 
chorus  girl.  But  like  all  modern  stories  it  was  a 
four-and-a-half -day  wonder. 


no  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

They  took  a  flat  in  Harlem.  After  two  weeks' 
search,  during  which  his  idea  of  the  value  of  aca 
demic  knowledge  faded  unmercifully,  Horace  took 
a  position  as  clerk  with  a  South  American  export 
company — some  one  had  told  him  that  exporting  was 
the  coming  thing.  Marcia  was  to  stay  in  her  show 
for  a  few  months — anyway  until  he  got  on  his  feet. 
He  was  getting  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  to  start 
with,  and  though  of  course  they  told  him  it  was 
only  a  question  of  months  until  he  would  be  earn 
ing  double  that,  Marcia  refused  even  to  consider 
giving  up  the  hundred  and  fifty  a  week  that  she  was 
getting  at  the  time. 

"We'll  call  ourselves  Head  and  Shoulders,  dear," 
she  said  softly,  "and  the  shoulders'!!  have  to  keep 
shaking  a  little  longer  until  the  old  head  gets  started." 

"I  hate  it,"  he  objected  gloomily. 

"Well,"  she  replied  emphatically,  "your  salary 
wouldn't  keep  us  in  a  tenement.  Don't  think  I 
want  to  be  public — I  don't.  I  want  to  be  yours. 
But  I'd  be  a  half-wit  to  sit  in  one  room  and  count 
the  sunflowers  on  the  wall-paper  while  I  waited  for 
you.  When  you  pull  down  three  hundred  a  month 
I'll  quit." 

And  much  as  it  hurt  his  pride,  Horace  had  to 
admit  that  hers  was  the  wiser  course. 

March  mellowed  into  April.  May  read  a  gor 
geous  riot  act  to  the  parks  and  waters  of  Manhattan, 
and  they  were  very  happy.  Horace,  who  had  no 
habits  whatsoever — he  had  never  had  time  to  form 
any — proved  the  most  adaptable  of  husbands,  and 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  in 

as  Marcia  entirely  lacked  opinions  on  the  subjeetsi 
that  engrossed  him  there  were  very  few  joltings  andl 
bumpings.  Their  minds  moved  in  different  spheres. 
Marcia  acted  as  practical  factotum,  and  Horace 
lived  either  hi  his  old  world  of  abstract  ideas  or  in 
a  sort  of  triumphantly  earthy  worship  and  adora 
tion  of  his  wife.  She  was  a  continual  source  of 
astonishment  to  him — the  freshness  and  originality 
of  her  mind,  her  dynamic,  clear-headed  energy,  and 
her  unfailing  good  humor. 

And  Marcia's  co-workers  in  the  nine-o'clock  show, 
whither  she  had  transferred  her  talents,  were  im 
pressed  with  her  tremendous  pride  in  her  husband's 
mental  powers.  Horace  they  knew  only  as  a  very 
slim,  tight-lipped,  and  immature-looking  young  man, 
who  waited  every  night  to  take  her  home. 

"  Horace,"  said  Marcia  one  evening  when  she 
met  him  as  usual  at  eleven,  "you  looked  like  a  ghost 
standing  there  against  the  street  lights.  You  losing 
weight?" 

He  shook  his  head  vaguely. 

"I  don't  know.  They  raised  me  to  a  hundred 
and  thirty-five  dollars  to-day,  and " 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Marcia  severely.  "You're 
killing  yourself  working  at  night.  You  read  those 
big  books  on  economy " 

"Economics,"  corrected  Horace. 

"Well,  you  read  'em  every  night  long  after  I'm 
asleep.  And  you're  getting  all  stooped  over  like 
you  were  before  we  were  married." 

"But,  Marcia,  I've  got  to " 


112  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

"No,  you  haven't,  dear.  I  guess  I'm  running 
this  shop  for  the  present,  and  I  won't  let  my  fella 
ruin  his  health  and  eyes.  You  got  to  get  some 
exercise." 

"I  do.    Every  morning  I " 

"Oh,  I  know!  But  those  dumb-bells  of  yours 
wouldn't  give  a  consumptive  two  degrees  of  fever. 
I  mean  real  exercise.  You've  got  to  join  a  gym 
nasium.  'Member  you  told  me  you  were  such  a 
trick  gymnast  once  that  they  tried  to  get  you  out 
for  the  team  in  college  and  they  couldn't  because 
you  had  a  standing  date  with  Herb  Spencer?" 

"I  used  to  enjoy  it,"  mused  Horace,  "but  it 
would  take  up  too  much  tune  now." 

"All  right,"  said  Marcia.  "I'll  make  a  bargain 
with  you.  You  join  a  gym  and  I'll  read  one  of 
those  books  from  the  brown  row  of  'em." 

"Tepys'  Diary'?  Why,  that  ought  to  be  en 
joyable.  He's  very  light." 

"Not  for  me— he  isn't.  It'll  be  like  digesting 
plate  glass.  But  you  been  telling  me  how  much 
it'd  broaden  my  lookout.  Well,  you  go  to  a  gym 
three  nights  a  week  and  I'll  take  one  big  dose  of 
Sammy." 

Horace  hesitated. 

"Well " 

"Come  on,  now!  You  do  some  giant  swings  for 
me  and  I'll  chase  some  culture  for  you." 

So  Horace  finally  consented,  and  all  through  a 
baking  summer  he  spent  three  and  sometimes  four 
evenings  a  week  experimenting  on  the  trapeze  in 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  113 

Skipper's  Gymnasium.  And  in  August  he  admitted 
to  Marcia  that  it  made  him  capable  of  more  mental 
work  during  the  day. 

"Mens  sana  in  cor  pore  sano"  he  said. 

"Don't  believe  in  it,"  replied  Marcia.  "I  tried 
one  of  those  patent  medicines  once  and  they're  all 
bunk.  You  stick  to  gymnastics." 

One  night  in  early  September  while  he  was  going 
through  one  of  his  contortions  on  the  rings  in  the 
nearly  deserted  room  he  was  addressed  by  a  medi 
tative  fat  man  whom  he  had  noticed  watching  him 
for  several  nights. 

"Say,  lad,  do  that  stunt  you  were  doin'  last 
night." 

Horace  grinned  at  him  from  his  perch. 

"I  invented  it,"  he  said.  "I  got  the  idea  from 
the  fourth  proposition  of  Euclid." 

"What  circus  he  with?" 

"He's  dead." 

"Well,  he  must  of  broke  his  neck  doin'  that  stunt. 
I  set  here  last  night  thinkin'  sure  you  was  goin'  to 
break  yours." 

"Like  this!"  said  Horace,  and  swinging  onto  the 
trapeze  he  did  his  stunt. 

"Don't  it  kill  your  neck  an'  shoulder  muscles?" 

"It  did  at  first,  but  inside  of  a  week  I  wrote  the 
quod  erat  demonstrandum  on  it." 

"Hm!" 

Horace  swung  idly  on  the  trapeze. 

"Ever  think  of  takin'  it  up  professionally?"  asked 
the  fat  man. 


H4  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"Not  I." 

'Good  money  in  it  if  you're  willin'  to  do  stunts 
like  'at  an'  can  get  away  with  it." 

"Here's  another,"  chirped  Horace  eagerly,  and 
the  fat  man's  mouth  dropped  suddenly  agape  as  he 
watched  this  pink-jerseyed  Prometheus  again  defy 
the  gods  and  Isaac  Newton. 

The  night  following  this  encounter  Horace  got 
home  from  work  to  find  a  rather  pale  Marcia 
stretched  out  on  the  sofa  waiting  for  him. 

"I  fainted  twice  to-day,"  she  began  without  pre 
liminaries. 

"What?" 

"Yep.  You  see  baby's  due  in  four  months  now. 
Doctor  says  I  ought  to  have  quit  dancing  two  weeks 
ago." 

Horace  sat  down  and  thought  it  over. 

"I'm  glad,  of  course,"  he  said  pensively — "I 
mean  glad  that  we're  going  to  have  a  baby.  But 
this  means  a  lot  of  expense." 

"I've  got  two  hundred  and  fifty  in  the  bank," 
said  Marcia  hopefully,  "and  two  weeks'  pay  coming." 

Horace  computed  quickly. 

"Including  my  salary,  that'll  give  us  nearly  four 
teen  hundred  for  the  next  six  months." 

Marcia  looked  blue. 

"That  all?  Course  I  can  get  a  job  singing  some 
where  this  month.  And  I  can  go  to  work  again  in 
March." 

"Of  course  nothing!"  said  Horace  gruffly. 
"You'll  stay  right  here.  Let's  see  now — there'll 


HEAD  AND   SHOULDERS  115 

be  doctor's  bills  and  a  nurse,  besides  the  maid. 
We've  got  to  have  some  more  money." 

"Well,"  said  Marcia  wearily,  "I  don't  know 
where  it's  coming  from.  It's  up  to  the  old  head 
now.  Shoulders  is  out  of  business." 

Horace  rose  and  pulled  on  his  coat. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"I've  got  an  idea,"  he  answered.  "I'll  be  right 
back." 

Ten  minutes  later  as  he  headed  down  the  street 
toward  Skipper's  Gymnasium  he  felt  a  placid  won 
der,  quite  unmixed  with  humor,  at  what  he  was 
going  to  do.  How  he  would  have  gaped  at  him 
self  a  year  before!  How  every  one  would  have 
gaped!  But  when  you  opened  your  door  at  the 
rap  of  life  you  let  in  many  things. 

The  gymnasium  was  brightly  lit,  and  when  his 
eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  glare  he  found  the 
meditative  fat  man  seated  on  a  pile  of  canvas  mats 
smoking  a  big  cigar. 

"Say,"  began  Horace  directly,  "were  you  in 
earnest  last  night  when  you  said  I  could  make 
money  on  my  trapeze  stunts?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  fat  man  in  surprise. 

"Well,  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  I  believe 
I'd  like  to  try  it.  I  could  work  at  night  and  on 
Saturday  afternoons — and  regularly  if  the  pay  is 
high  enough." 

The  fat  man  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "Charlie  Paulson's  the  man  to 
see.  He'll  book  you  inside  of  four  days,  once  he 


n6  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

sees  you  work  out.  He  won't  be  in  now,  but  111 
get  hold  of  him  for  to-morrow  night." 

The  fat  man  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Charlie 
Paulson  arrived  next  night  and  put  in  a  wondrous 
hour  watching  the  prodigy  swoop  through  the  air 
in  amazing  parabolas,  and  on  the  night  following  he 
brought  two  large  men  with  him  who  looked  as 
though  they  had  been  born  smoking  black  cigars 
and  talking  about  money  in  low,  passionate  voices. 
Then  on  the  succeeding  Saturday  Horace  Tarbox's 
torso  made  its  first  professional  appearance  in  a 
gymnastic  exhibition  at  the  Coleman  Street  Gar 
dens.  But  though  the  audience  numbered  nearly 
five  thousand  people,  Horace  felt  no  nervousness. 
From  his  childhood  he  had  read  papers  to  audi 
ences — learned  that  trick  of  detaching  himself. 

"Marcia,"  he  said  cheerfully  later  that  same 
night,  "I  think  we're  out  of  the  woods.  Paulson 
thinks  he  can  get  me  an  opening  at  the  Hippodrome, 
and  that  means  an  all-winter  engagement.  The 
Hippodrome,  you  know,  is  a  big " 

"Yes,  I  believe  I've  heard  of  it,"  interrupted 
Marcia,  "but  I  want  to  know  about  this  stunt  you're 
doing.  It  isn't  any  spectacular  suicide,  is  it?" 

"It's  nothing,"  said  Horace  quietly.  "But  if  you 
can  think  of  any  nicer  way  of  a  man  killing  himself 
than  taking  a  risk  for  you,  why  that's  the  way  I 
want  to  die." 

Marcia  reached  up  and  wound  both  arms  tightly 
round  his  neck. 

"Kiss  me,"  she  whispered,  "and  call  me  'dear 
heart.'  I  love  to  hear  you  say  'dear  heart.'  And 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  117 

bring  me  a  book  to  read  to-morrow.  No  more 
Sam  Pepys,  but  something  trick  and  trashy.  IVe 
been  wild  for  something  to  do  all  day.  I  felt  like 
writing  letters,  but  I  didn't  have  anybody  to  write 
to." 

"Write  to  me,"  said  Horace.    "I'll  read  them." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  breathed  Marcia.  "If  I  knew 
words  enough  I  could  write  you  the  longest  love- 
letter  in  the  world— and  never  get  tired." 

But  after  two  more  months  Marcia  grew  very 
tired  indeed,  and  for  a  row  of  nights  it  was  a  very 
anxious,  weary-looking  young  athlete  who  walked 
out  before  the  Hippodrome  crowd.  Then  there 
were  two  days  when  his  place  was  taken  by  a  young 
man  who  wore  pale  blue  instead  of  white,  and  got 
very  little  applause.  But  after  the  two  days  Horace 
appeared  again,  and  those  who  sat  close  to  the  stage 
remarked  an  expression  of  beatific  happiness  on  that 
young  acrobat's  face,  even  when  he  was  twisting 
breathlessly  hi  the  air  in  the  middle  of  his  amazing 
and  original  shoulder  swing.  After  that  perform 
ance  he  laughed  at  the  elevator  man  and  dashed  up 
the  stairs  to  the  flat  five  steps  at  a  time — and  then 
tiptoed  very  carefully  into  a  quiet  room. 

"Marcia,"  he  whispered. 

"Hello!"  She  smiled  up  at  him  wanly.  "Hor 
ace,  there's  something  I  want  you  to  do.  Look  hi 
my  top  bureau  drawer  and  you'll  find  a  big  stack  of 
paper.  It's  a  book — sort  of — Horace.  I  wrote  it 
down  in  these  last  three  months  while  I've  been 
laid  up.  I  wish  you'd  take  it  to  that  Peter  Boyce 
Wendell  who  put  my  letter  in  his  paper.  He  could 


Ii8  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

tell  you  whether  it'd  be  a  good  book.  I  wrote  it 
just  the  way  I  talk,  just  the  way  I  wrote  that  letter 
to  him.  It's  just  a  story  about  a  lot  of  things  that 
happened  to  me.  Will  you  take  it  to  him,  Horace  ?  " 

"Yes,  darling." 

He  leaned  over  the  bed  until  his  head  was  beside 
her  on  the  pillow,  and  began  stroking  back  her 
yellow  hair. 

"  Dearest  Marcia,"  he  said  softly. 

"No,"  she  murmured,  "call  me  what  I  told  you 
to  call  me." 

"Dear  heart,"  he  whispered  passionately — "dear 
est,  dearest  heart." 

"What'llwecallher?" 

They  rested  a  minute  in  happy,  drowsy  content, 
while  Horace  considered. 

"We'll  call  her  Marcia  Hume  Tarbox,"  he  said 
at  length. 

"Why  the  Hume?" 

"Because  he's  the  fellow  who  first  introduced  us." 

"That  so?"  she  murmured,  sleepily  surprised. 
"I  thought  his  name  was  Moon." 

Her  eyes  closed,  and  after  a  moment  the  slow, 
lengthening  surge  of  the  bedclothes  over  her  breast 
showed  that  she  was  asleep. 

Horace  tiptoed  over  to  the  bureau  and  opening 
the  top  drawer  found  a  heap  of  closely  scrawled, 
lead-smeared  pages.  He  looked  at  the  first  sheet: 

SANDRA  PEPYS,  SYNCOPATED 
BY  MARCIA  TARBOX 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  119 

He  smiled.  So  Samuel  Pepys  had  made  an  im 
pression  on  her  after  all.  He  turned  a  page  and 
began  to  read.  His  smile  deepened — he  read  on. 
Half  an  hour  passed  and  he  became  aware  that 
Marcia  had  waked  and  was  watching  him  from  the 
bed. 

"Honey,"  came  in  a  whisper. 

"What,  Marcia?" 

" Do  you  like  it?" 

Horace  coughed. 

"I  seem  to  be  reading  on.    It's  bright." 

"Take  it  to  Peter  Boyce  Wendell.  Tell  him  you 
got  the  highest  marks  in  Princeton  once  and  that 
you  ought  to  know  when  a  book's  good.  Tell  him 
this  one's  a  world  beater." 

"All  right,  Marcia,"  said  Horace  gently. 

Her  eyes  closed  again  and  Horace  crossing  over 
kissed  her  forehead — stood  there  for  a  moment  with 
a  look  of  tender  pity.  Then  he  left  the  room. 

All  that  night  the  sprawly  writing  on  the  pages, 
the  constant  mistakes  in  spelling  and  grammar, 
and  the  weird  punctuation  danced  before  his  eyes. 
He  woke  several  times  in  the  night,  each  time  full 
of  a  welling  chaotic  sympathy  for  this  desire  of 
Marcia's  soul  to  express  itself  in  words.  To  him 
there  was  something  infinitely  pathetic  about  it, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  months  he  began  to  turn 
over  in  his  mind  his  own  half -forgotten  dreams. 

He  had  meant  to  write  a  series  of  books,  to  pop 
ularize  the  new  realism  as  Schopenhauer  had  pop 
ularized  pessimism  and  William  James  pragmatism. 


120  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

But  life  hadn't  come  that  way.  Life  took  hold  of 
people  and  forced  them  into  flying  rings.  He  laughed 
to  think  of  that  rap  at  his  door,  the  diaphanous 
shadow  in  Hume,  Marcia's  threatened  kiss. 

"And  it's  still  me,"  he  said  aloud  in  wonder  as 
he  lay  awake  hi  the  darkness.  "I'm  the  man  who 
sat  in  Berkeley  with  temerity  to  wonder  if  that  rap 
would  have  had  actual  existence  had  my  ear  not 
been  there  to  hear  it.  I'm  still  that  man.  I  could 
be  electrocuted  for  the  crimes  he  committed. 

"Poor  gauzy  souls  trying  to  express  ourselves  in 
something  tangible.  Marcia  with  her  written  book; 
I  with  my  unwritten  ones.  Trying  to  choose  our 
mediums  and  then  taking  what  we  get — and  being 
glad." 


"Sandra  Pepys,  Syncopated,"  with  an  introduc 
tion  by  Peter  Boyce  Wendell,  the  columnist,  ap 
peared  serially  in  Jordan's  Magazine,  and  came  out 
in  book  form  in  March.  From  its  first  published 
instalment  it  attracted  attention  far  and  wide.  A 
trite  enough  subject — a  girl  from  a  small  New  Jer 
sey  town  coming  to  New  York  to  go  on  the  stage — 
treated  simply,  with  a  peculiar  vividness  of  phrasing 
and  a  haunting  undertone  of  sadness  in  the  very 
inadequacy  of  its  vocabulary,  it  made  an  irresisti 
ble  appeal. 

Peter  Boyce  Wendell,  who  happened  at  that  time 
to  be  advocating  the  enrichment  of  the  American 
language  by  the  immediate  adoption  of  expressive 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  121 

vernacular  words,  stood  as  its  sponsor  and  thun- 
~dered  TSs  indorsement  over  the  placid  bromides  of 
the  conventional  reviewers. 

Marcia  received  three  hundred  dollars  an  instal 
ment  for  the  serial  publication,  which  came  at  an 
opportune  time,  for  though  Horace's  monthly  salary 
at  the  Hippodrome  was  now  more  than  Marcia's 
had  ever  been,  young  Marcia  was  emitting  shrill 
cries  which  they  interpreted  as  a  demand  for  coun 
try  air.  So  early  April  found  them  installed  in  a 
bungalow  in  Westchester  County,  with  a  place  for 
a  lawn,  a  place  for  a  garage,  and  a  place  for  every 
thing,  including  a  sound-proof  impregnable  study, 
in  which  Marcia  faithfully  promised  Mr.  Jordan 
she  would  shut  herself  up  when  her  daughter's  de 
mands  began  to  be  abated,  and  compose  immortally 
illiterate  literature. 

"It's  not  half  bad,"  thought  Horace  one  night  as 
he  was  on  his  way  from  the  station  to  his  house. 
He  was  considering  several  prospects  that  had  opened 
up,  a  four  months'  vaudeville  offer  in  five  figures,  a 
chance  to  go  back  to  Princeton  in  charge  of  all  gym 
nasium  work.  Odd !  He  had  once  intended  to  go 
back  there  in  charge  of  all  philosophic  work,  and 
now  he  had  not  even  been  stirred  by  the  arrival  in 
New  York  of  Anton  Laurier,  his  old  idol. 

The  gravel  crunched  raucously  under  his  heel. 
He  saw  the  lights  of  his  sitting-room  gleaming  and 
noticed  a  big  car  standing  in  the  drive.  Probably 
Mr.  Jordan  again,  come  to  persuade  Marcia  to  set 
tle  down  to  work. 


122  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

She  had  heard  the  sound  of  his  approach  and  her 
form  was  silhouetted  against  the  lighted  door  as 
she  came  out  to  meet  him. 

"There's  some  Frenchman  here,"  she  whispered 
nervously.  "I  can't  pronounce  his  name,  but  he 
sounds  awful  deep.  You'll  have  to  jaw  with  him." 

" What  Frenchman?" 

"You  can't  prove  it  by  me.  He  drove  up  an 
hour  ago  with  Mr.  Jordan,  and  said  he  wanted  to 
meet  Sandra  Pepys,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

Two  men  rose  from  chairs  as  they  went  inside. 

"Hello,  Tarbox,"  said  Jordan.  "I've  just  been 
bringing  together  two  celebrities.  I've  brought 
M'sieur  Laurier  out  with  me.  M'sieur  Laurier,  let 
me  present  Mr.  Tarbox,  Mrs.  Tarbox's  husband." 

"Not  Anton  Laurier!"  exclaimed  Horace. 

"But,  yes.  I  must  come.  I  have  to  come.  I 
have  read  the  book  of  Madame,  and  I  have  been 
charmed" — he  fumbled  in  his  pocket — "ah,  I  have 
read  of  you  too.  In  this  newspaper  which  I  read 
to-day  it  has  your  name." 

He  finally  produced  a  clipping  from  a  magazine. 

"Read  it!"  he  said  eagerly.  "It  has  about  you 
too." 

Horace's  eye  skipped  down  the  page. 

"A  distinct  contribution  to  American  dialect  lit 
erature,"  it  said.  "No  attempt  at  literary  tone; 
the  book  derives  its  very  quality  from  this  fact,  as 
did  ' Huckleberry  Finn.'" 

Horace's  eyes  caught  a  passage  lower  down;  he 
became  suddenly  aghast — read  on  hurriedly: 


HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  123 

"Marcia  Tarbox's  connection  with  the  stage  is 
not  only  as  a  spectator  but  as  the  wife  of  a  per 
former.  She  was  married  last  year  to  Horace  Tar- 
box,  who  every  evening  delights  the  children  at  the 
Hippodrome  with  his  wondrous  flying-ring  per 
formance.  It  is  said  that  the  young  couple  have 
dubbed  themselves  Head  and  Shoulders,  referring 
doubtless  to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Tarbox  supplies  the 
literary  and  mental  qualities,  while  the  supple  and 
agile  shoulders  of  her  husband  contribute  their 
share  to  the  family  fortunes. 

"Mrs.  Tarbox  seems  to  merit  that  much-abused 
title — ' prodigy.'  Only  twenty " 

Horace  stopped  reading,  and  with  a  very  odd  ex 
pression  in  his  eyes  gazed  intently  at  Anton  Laurier. 

"I  want  to  advise  you — "  he  began  hoarsely. 

"What?" 

"About  raps.  Don't  answer  them!  Let  them 
alone — have  a  padded  door." 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL 

THERE  was  a  rough  stone  age  and  a  smooth  stone 
age  and  a  bronze  age,  and  many  years  afterward  a 
cut-glass  age.  In  the  cut-glass  age,  when  young 
ladies  had  persuaded  young  men  with  long,  curly 
mustaches  to  marry  them,  they  sat  down  several 
months  afterward  and  wrote  thank-you  notes  for 
all  sorts  of  cut-glass  presents — punch-bowls,  finger- 
bowls,  dinner-glasses,  wine-glasses,  ice-cream  dishes, 
bonbon  dishes,  decanters,  and  vases — for,  though 
cut  glass  was  nothing  new  in  the  nineties,  it  was 
then  especially  busy  reflecting  the  dazzling  light  of 
fashion  from  the  Back  Bay  to  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Middle  West. 

After  the  wedding  the  punch-bowls  were  arranged 
on  the  sideboard  with  the  big  bowl  in  the  centre; 
the  glasses  were  set  up  in  the  china-closet;  the  can 
dlesticks  were  put  at  both  ends  of  things — and  then 
the  struggle  for  existence  began.  The  bonbon  dish 
lost  its  little  handle  and  became  a  pin-tray  up 
stairs;  a  promenading  cat  knocked  the  little  bowl 
off  the  sideboard,  and  the  hired  girl  chipped  the 
middle-sized  one  with  the  sugar-dish;  then  the 
wine-glasses  succumbed  to  leg  fractures,  and  even 
the  dinner-glasses  disappeared  one  by  one  like  the 
ten  little  niggers,  the  last  one  ending  up,  scarred 
and  maimed,  as  a  tooth-brush  holder  among  other 

124 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  125 

shabby  genteels  on  the  bathroom  shelf.  But  by 
the  time  all  this  had  happened  the  cut-glass  age  was 
over,  anyway. 

It  was  well  past  its  first  glory  on  the  day  the 
curious  Mrs.  Roger  Fairboalt  came  to  see  the 
beautiful  Mrs.  Harold  Piper. 

"My  dear"  said  the  curious  Mrs.  Roger  Fair 
boalt,  "  I  love  your  house.  I  think  it's  quite  artistic." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  said  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Harold 
Piper,  lights  appearing  in  her  young,  dark  eyes; 
"and  you  must  come  often.  I'm  almost  always  alone 
in  the  afternoon." 

Mrs.  Fairboalt  would  have  liked  to  remark  that 
she  didn't  believe  this  at  all  and  couldn't  see  how 
she'd  be  expected  to — it  was  all  over  town  that  Mr. 
Freddy  Gedney  had  been  dropping  in  on  Mrs.  Piper 
five  afternoons  a  week  for  the  past  six  months. 
Mrs.  Fairboalt  was^at  that  ripe  age  where  she  dis 
trusted  all  beautiful  women ^ 

"I  love  the  dining-room  most"  she  said,  "all  that 
marvellous  china,  and  that  huge  cut-glass  bowl." 

Mrs.  Piper  laughed,  so  prettily  that  Mrs.  Fair- 
boalt's  lingering  reservations  about  the  Freddy 
Gedney  story  quite  vanished. 

"Oh,  that  big  bowl !"  Mrs.  Piper's  mouth  form 
ing  the  words  was  a  vivid  rose  petal.  "There's  a 
story  about  that  bowl " 

"Oh " 

"You  remember  young  Carleton  Canby?  Well, 
he  was  very  attentiveCat  one  tirpeTJand  the  night 
I  told  him  I  was  going  to  marry  Harold,  seven  years 


126          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

ago,  in  ninety-two,  he  drew  himself  way  up  and 
said:  'Evylyn,  I'm  going  to  give  a  present  that's 
as  hard  as  you  are  and  as  beautiful  and  as  empty 
and  as  easy  to  see  through.'  He  frightened  me  a 
little — his  eyes  were  so  black.  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  deed  me  a  haunted  house  or  something 
that  would  explode  when  you  opened  it.  That 
bowl  came,  and  of  course  it's  beautiful.  Its  diam 
eter  or  circumference  pr^somethJLng  is  two  and  a 
half  feet — or  perhaps  it's  three  and  a  half.  Anyway, 
the  sideboard  is  really  too  small  for  it;  k  sticks 
way  out." 

"My  dear,  wasn't  that  odd!  And  he  left  town 
about  then,  didn't  he?"  Mrs.  Fairboalt  was  scrib 
bling  italicized  notes  on  her  memory — "hard,  beau 
tiful,  empty,  and  easy  to  see  through." 

"Yes,  he  went  West — or  South — or  somewhere," 
answered  Mrs.  Piper,  radiating  that  divine  vague 
ness  that  helps  to  lift  beauty  out  of  time. 

Mrs.  Fairboalt  drew  on  her  gloves,  approving  the 
effect  of  largeness  given  by  the  open  sweep  from  the 
spacious  music-room  through  the  library,  disclosing 
a  part  of  the  dining-room  beyond.  It  was  really 
the  nicest  smaller  house  in  town,  and  Mrs.  Piper 
had  talked  of  moving  to  a  larger  one  on  Devereaux 
Avenue.  Harold  Piper  must  be  coining  money. 

As  she  turned  into  the  sidewalk  under  the  gather 
ing  autumn  dusk  she  assumed  that  disapproving, 
faintly  unpleasant  expression  that  almost  all  suc 
cessful  women  of  forty  wear  on  the  street. 

If  /  were  Harold  Piper,  she  thought,  I'd  spend  a 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  127 

little  less  time  on  business  and  a  little  more  time  at 
home.  Some  friend,  should  speak  to  him. 

But  if  Mrs.  Fairboalt  had  considered  it  a  success 
ful  afternoon  she  would  have  named  it  a  triumph 
had  she  waited  two  minutes  longer.  For  while  she 
was  still  a  black  receding  figure  a  hundred  yards 
down  the  street,  a  very  good-looking  distraught 
young  man  turned  up  the  walk  to  the  Piper  house. 
Mrs.  Piper  answered  the  door-bell  herself,  and  with 
a  rather  dismayed  expression  led  him  quickly  into 
the  library. 

"I  had  to  see  you,"  he  began  wildly;  "your  note 
played  the  devil  with  me.  Did  Harold  frighten  you 
into  this?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Fin  through,  Fred,"  she  said  slowly,  and  her 
lips  had  never  looked  to  him  so  much  like  tearings 
from  a  rose.  "He  came  home  last  night  sick  with 
it.  Jessie  Piper's  sense  of  duty  was  too  much  for 
her,  so  she  went  down  to  his  office  and  told  him. 
He  was  hurt  and — oh,  I  can't  help  seeing  it  his  way, 
Fred.  He  says  we've  been  club  gossip  all  summer 
and  he  didn't  know  it,  and  now  he  understands 
snatches  of  conversation  he's  caught  and  veiled 
hints  people  have  dropped  about  me.  He's  mighty 
angry,  Fred,  and  he  loves  me  and  I  love  him — 
rather." 

Gedney  nodded  slowly  and  half  closed  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "yes,  my  trouble's  like  yours. 
I  can  see  other  people's  points  of  view  too  plainly." 
His  gray  eyes  met  her  dark  ones  frankly.  "The 


128          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

blessed  thing's  over.  My  God,  Evylyn,  I've  been 
sitting  down  at  the  office  all  day  looking  at  the  out 
side  of  your  letter,  and  looking  at  it  and  looking 
at  it " 

"You've  got  to  go,  Fred,"  she  said  steadily,  and 
the  slight  emphasis  of  hurry  in  her  voice  was  a  new 
thrust  for  him.  "I  gave  him  my  word  of  honor  I 
wouldn't  see  you.  I  know  just  how  far  I  can  go 
with  Harold,  and  being  here  with  you  this  evening 
is  one  of  the  things  I  can't  do." 

They  were  still  standing,  and  as  she  spoke  she 
made  a  little  movement  toward  the  door.  Gedney 
looked  at  her  miserably,  trying,  here  at  the  end, 
to  treasure  up  a  last  picture  of  her — and  then  sud 
denly  both  of  them  were  stiffened  into  marble  at 
the  sound  of  steps  on  the  walk  outside.  Instantly 
her  arm  reached  out  grasping  the  lapel  of  his  coat 
— half  urged,  half  swung  him  through  the  big  door 
into  the  dark  dining-room. 

'Til  make  him  go  up-stairs,"  she  whispered  close 
to  his  ear;  " don't  move  till  you  hear  him  on  the 
stairs.  Then  go  out  the  front  way." 

Then  he  was  alone  listening  as  she  greeted  her 
husband  in  the  hall. 

Harold  Piper  was  thirty-six,  nine  years  older  than 
his  wife.  He  was  handsome — with  marginal  notes: 
these  being  eyes  that  were  too  close  together,  and  a 
certain  woodenness  when  his  face  was  in  repose. 
His  attitude  toward  this  Gedney  matter  was  typical 
of  all  his  attitudes.  He  had  told  Evylyn  that  he 
considered  the  subject  closed  and  would  never  re 
proach  her  nor  allude  to  it  in  any  form;  and  he  told 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  129 

himself  that  this  was  rather  a  big  way  of  looking 
at  it — that  she  was  not  a  little  impressed.  Yet, 
like  all  men  who  are  preoccupied  with  their  own 
broadness,  he  was  exceptionally  narrow. 

He  greeted  Evylyn  with  emphasized  cordiality 
this  evening. 

"You'll  have  to  hurry  and  dress,  Harold,"  she 
said  eagerly;  "we're  going  to  the  Bronsons'." 

He  nodded. 

"It  doesn't  take  me  long  to  dress,  dear,"  and,  his 
words  trailing  off,  he  walked  on  into  the  library. 
Evylyn's  heart  clattered  loudly. 

"Harold—  "  she  began,  with  a  little  catch  in  her 
voice,  and  followed  him  in.  He  was  lighting  a 
cigarette.  "You'll  have  to  hurry,  Harold,"  she 
finished,  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Why?"  he  asked,  a  trifle  impatiently;  "you're 
not  dressed  yourself  yet,  Evie." 

He  stretched  out  in  a  Morris  chair  and  unfolded 
a  newspaper.  With  a  sinking  sensation  Evylyn 
saw  that  this  meant  at  least  ten  minutes — and  Ged- 
ney  was  standing  breathless  in  the  next  room. 
Supposing  Harold  decided  that  before  he  went  up 
stairs  he  wanted  a  drink  from  the  decanter  on  the 
sideboard.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  to  forestall  this 
contingency  by  bringing  him  the  decanter  and  a 
glass.  She  dreaded  calling  his  attention  to  the 
dining-room  in  any  way,  but  she  couldn't  risk  the 
other  chance. 

But  at  the  same  moment  Harold  rose  and,  throw 
ing  his  paper  down,  came  toward  her. 

"Evie,  dear,"  he  said,  bending  and  putting  his 


130          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

arms  about  her,  "I  hope  you're  not  thinking  about 
last  night — "  She  moved  close  to  him,  trembling. 
"I  know,"  he  continued,  "it  was  just  an  imprudent 
friendship  on  your  part.  We  all  make  mistakes." 

Evylyn  hardly  heard  him.  She  was  wondering 
if  by  sheer  clinging  to  him  she  could  draw  him  out 
and  up  the  stairs.  She  thought  of  playing  sick, 
asking  to  be  carried  up — unfortunately,  she  knew  he 
would  lay  her  on  the  couch  and  bring  her  whiskey. 

Suddenly  her  nervous  tension  moved  up  a  last 
impossible  notch.  She  had  heard  a  very  faint  but 
quite  unmistakable  creak  from  the  floor  of  the  dining- 
room.  Fred  was  trying  to  get  out  the  back  way. 

Then  her  heart  took  a  flying  leap  as  a  hollow  ring 
ing  note  like  a  gong  echoed  and  re-echoed  through 
the  house.  Gedney's  arm  had  struck  the  big  cut- 
glass  bowl. 

"What's  that !"  cried  Harold.    "Who's  there?" 

She  clung  to  him  but  he  broke  away,  and  the 
room  seemed  to  crash  about  her  ears.  She  heard 
the  pantry-door  swing  open,  a  scuffle,  the  rattle  of 
a  tin  pan,  and  in  wild  despair  she  rushed  into  the 
kitchen  and  pulled  up  the  gas.  Her  husband's  arm 
slowly  unwound  from  Gedney's  neck,  and  he  stood 
there  very  still,  first  in  amazement,  then  with  pain 
dawning  m  his  face. 

"My  golly!"  he  said  hi  bewilderment,  and  then 
repeated:  "Myg0%/" 

He  turned  as  if  to  jump  again  at  Gedney,  stopped, 
his  muscles  visibly  relaxed,  and  he  gave  a  bitter  little 
laugh. 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  131 

"You  people — you  people — ;  Evylyn's  arms 
were  around  him  and  her  eyes  were  pleading  with 
him  frantically,  but  he  pushed  her  away  and  sank 
dazed  into  a  kitchen  chair,  his  face  like  porcelain. 
"You've  been  doing  things  to  me,  Evylyn.  Why, 
you  little  devil !  You  little  devil!" 

She  had  never  felt  so  sorry  for  him;  she  had  never 
loved  him  so  much. 

"It  wasn't  her  fault,"  said  Gedney  rather  humbly. 
"I  just  came."  But  Piper  shook  his  head,  and  his 
expression  when  he  stared  up  was  as  if  some  physical 
accident  had  jarred  his  mind  into  a  temporary  in 
ability  to  function.  His  eyes,  grown  suddenly  piti 
ful,  struck  a  deep,  unsounded  chord  in  Evylyn — 
and  simultaneously  a  furious  anger  surged  hi  her. 
She  felt  her  eyelids  burning;  she  stamped  her  foot 
violently;  her  hands  scurried  nervously  over  the 
table  as  if  searching  for  a  weapon,  and  then  she 
flung  herself  wildly  at  Gedney. 

"Get  out !"  she  screamed,  dark  eyes  blazing,  little 
fists  beating  helplessly  on  his  outstretched  arm. 
"You  did  this!  Get  out  of  here — get  out — get 
out!  Get  out!" 

II 

Concerning  Mrs.  Harold  Piper  at  thirty-five,  opin 
ion  was  divided — women  said  she  was  still  handsome; 
men  said  she  was  pretty  no  longer.  And  this  was 
probably  because  the  qualities  in  her  beauty  that 
women  had  feared  and  men  had  followed  had  van 
ished.  Her  eyes  were  still  as  large  and  as  dark 


132  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

and  as  sad,  but  the  mystery  had  departed;  their 
sadness  was  no  longer  eternal,  only  human,  and  she 
had  developed  a  habit,  when  she  was  startled  or 
annoyed,  of  twitching  her  brows  together  and 
blinking  several  times.  Her  mouth  also  had. lost: 
the  red  had  receded  and  the  faint  down-turning  of 
its  corners  when  she  smiled,  that  had  added  to  the 
sadness  of  the  eyes  and  been  vaguely  mocking  and 
beautiful,  was  quite  gone.  When  she  smiled  now 
the  corners  of  her  lips  turned  up.  Back  in  the  days 
when  she  revelled  in  her  own  beauty  Evylyn  had 
enjoyed  that  smile  of  hers — she  had  accentuated 
it.  When  she  stopped  accentuating  it,  it  faded  out 
and  the  last  of  her  mystery  with  it. 

Evylyn  had  ceased  accentuating  her  smile  within 
a  month  after  the  Freddy  Gedney  affair.  Externally 
things  had  gone  on  very  much  as  they  had  before. 
But  hi  those  few  minutes  during  which  she  had  dis 
covered  how  much  she  loved  her  husband  Evylyn 
had  realized  how  indelibly  she  had  hurt  him.  For 
a  month  she  struggled  against  aching  silences,  wild 
reproaches  and  accusations — she  pled  with  him, 
made  quiet,  pitiful  little  love  to  him,  and  he  laughed 
at  her  bitterly — and  then  she,  too,  slipped  gradu 
ally  into  silence  and  a  shadowy,  unpenetrable  bar 
rier  dropped  between  them.  The  surge  of  love 
that  had  risen  in  her  she  lavished  on  Donald,  her 
little  boy,  realizing  him  almost  wonderingly  as  a 
part  of  her  life. 

The  next  year  a  piling  up  of  mutual  interests  and 
responsibilities  and  some  stray  flicker  from  the  past 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  133 

brought  husband  and  wife  together  again — but  after 
a  rather  pathetic  flood  of  passion  Evylyn  realized 
that  her  great  opportunity  was  gone.  There  sim 
ply  wasn't  anything  left.  She  might  have  been 
youth  and  love  for  both — but  that  time  of  silence 
had  slowly  dried  up  the  springs  of  affection  and  her 
own  desire  to  drink  again  of  them  was  dead. 

She  began  for  the  first  time  to  seek  women  friends, 
to  prefer  books  she  had  read  before,  to  sew  a  little 
where  she  could  watch  her  two  children  to  whom  she 
was  devoted.  She  worried  about  little  things — if 
she  saw  crumbs  on  the  dinner-table  her  mind  drifted 
off  the  conversation:  she  was  receding  gradually 
into  middle  age. 

Her  thirty-fifth  birthday  had  been  an  exception 
ally  busy  one,  for  they  were  entertaining  on  short 
notice  that  night,  and  as  she  stood  in  her  bedroom 
window  in  the  late  afternoon  she  discovered  that 
she  was  quite  tired.  Ten  years  before  she  would 
have  lain  down  and  slept,  but  now  she  had  a  feeling 
that  things  needed  watching:  maids  were  cleaning 
down-stairs,  bric-a-brac  was  all  over  the  floor,  and 
there  were  sure  to  be  grocery-men  that  had  to  be 
talked  to  imperatively — and  then  there  was  a  letter 
to  write  Donald,  who  was  fourteen  and  in  his  first 
year  away  at  school. 

She  had  nearly  decided  to  lie  down,  nevertheless, 
when  she  heard  a  sudden  familiar  signal  from  little 
Julie  down-stairs.  She  compressed  her  lips,  her 
brows  twitched  together,  and  she  blinked. 

"Julie!"  she  called. 


134          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"Ah-h-h-ow !"  prolonged  Julie  plaintively.  Then 
the  voice  of  Hilda,  the  second  maid,  floated  up  the 
stairs. 

"She  cut  herself  a  little,  Mis'  Piper." 

Evylyn  flew  to  her  sewing-basket,  rummaged  un 
til  she  found  a  torn  handkerchief,  and  hurried  down- 
stajrs.  In  a  moment  Julie  was  crying  in  her  arms 
as  she  searched  for  the  cut,  faint,  disparaging  evi 
dences  of  which  appeared  on  Julie's  dress ! 

"My  fc-umb!"  explained  Julie.  "Oh-h-h-h, 
t'urts." 

"It  was  the  bowl  here,  the  he  one,"  said  Hilda 
apologetically.  "It  was  waitin'  on  the  floor  while 
I  polished  the  sideboard,  and  Julie  come  along  an' 
went  to  foolin'  with  it.  She  yust  scratch  herself." 

Evylyn  frowned  heavily  at  Hilda,  and  twisting 
Julie  decisively  in  her  lap,  began  tearing  strips  off 
the  handkerchief. 

"Now — let's  see  it,  dear." 

Julie  held  it  up  and  Evylyn  pounced. 

"There!" 

Julie  surveyed  her  swathed  thumb  doubtfully. 
She  crooked  it;  it  waggled.  A  pleased,  interested 
look  appeared  in  her  tear-stained  face.  She  sniffled 
and  waggled  it  again. 

"You  precious!"  cried  Evylyn  and  kissed  her, 
but  before  she  left  the  room  she  levelled  another 
frown  at  Hilda.  Careless!  Servants  all  that  way 
nowadays.  If  she  could  get  a  good  Irishwoman — 
but  you  couldn't  any  more — and  these  Swedes 

At  five  o'clock  Harold  arrived  and,  coming  up 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  135 

to  her  room,  threatened  in  a  suspiciously  jovial 
tone  to  kiss  her  thirty-five  times  for  her  birthday. 
Evylyn  resisted. 

"You've  been  drinking,"  she  said  shortly,  and 
then  added  qualitatively,  "a  little.  You  know  I 
loathe  the  smeU  of  it." 

"Evie,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  seating  himself 
in  a  chair  by  the  window,  "I  can  tell  you  something 
now.  I  guess  you've  known  things  haven't  been 
going  quite  right  down- town." 

She  was  standing  at  the  window  combing  her 
hair,  but  at  these  words  she  turned  and  looked  at 
him. 

"How  do  you  mean?  You've  always  said  there 
was  room  for  more  than  one  wholesale  hardware 
house  in  town."  Her  voice  expressed  some  alarm. 

"There  was"  said  Harold  significantly,  "but  this 
Clarence  Ahearn  is  a  smart  man." 

"I  was  surprised  when  you  said  he  was  coming 
to  dinner." 

"Evie,"  he  went  on,  with  another  slap  at  his 
knee,  "after  January  first  'The  Clarence  Ahearn 
Company '  becomes  'The  Ahearn,  Piper  Company ' 
—and  'Piper  Brothers'  as  a  company  ceases  to 
exist." 

Evylyn  was  startled.  The  sound  of  his  name  in 
second  place  was  somehow  hostile  to  her;  still  he 
appeared  jubilant. 

"I  don't  understand,  Harold." 

"Well,  Evie,  Ahearn  has  been  fooling  around 
with  Marx.  If  those  two  had  combined  we'd  have 


136  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

been  the  little  fellow,  struggling  along,  picking  up 
smaller  orders,  hanging  back  on  risks.  It's  a  ques 
tion  of  capital,  Evie,  and  ' Ahearn  and  Marx'  would 
have  had  the  business  just  like  l Ahearn  and  Piper' 
is  going  to  now/'  He  paused  and  coughed  and  a 
little  cloud  of  whiskey  floated  up  to  her  nostrils. 
"Tell  you  the  truth,  Evie,  I've  suspected  that 
Ahearn's  wife  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Am 
bitious  little  lady,  I'm  told.  Guess  she  knew  the 
Marxes  couldn't  help  her  much  here." 

"Is  she — common?",  asked  Evie. 

"Never  met  her,  I'm  sure — but  I  don't  doubt  it. 
Clarence  Ahearn's  name's  been  up  at  the  Country 
Club  five  months — no  action  taken."  He  waved 
his  hand  disparagingly.  "Ahearn  and  I  had  lunch 
together  to-day  and  just  about  clinched  it,  so  I 
thought  it'd  be  nice  to  have  him  and  his  wife  up 
to-night — just  have  nine,  mostly  family.  After  all, 
it's  a  big  thing  for  me,  and  of  course  we'll  have  to 
see  something  of  them,  Evie." 

"Yes,"  said  Evie  thoughtfully,  "I  suppose  we 
will." 

Evylyn  was  not  disturbed  over  the  social  end  of 
it — but  the  idea  of  "Piper  Brothers"  becoming 
"The  Ahearn,  Piper  Company"  startled  her.  It 
seemed  like  going  down  in  the  world. 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  she  began  to  dress  for  din 
ner,  she  heard  his  voice  from  down-stairs. 

"Oh,  Evie,  come  down!" 

She  went  out  into  the  hall  and  called  over  the 
banister : 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  137 

"What  is  it ?" 

"I  want  you  to  help  me  make  some  of  that 
punch  before  dinner." 

Hurriedly  rehooking  her  dress,  she  descended  the 
stairs  and  found  him  grouping  the  essentials  on  the 
dining-room  table.  She  went  to  the  sideboard  and, 
lifting  one  of  the  bowls,  carried  it  over. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  protested,  "let's  use  the  big  one. 
There'll  be  Ahearn  and  his  wife  and  you  and  I  and 
Milton,  that's  five,  and  Tom  and  Jessie,  that's 
seven,  and  your  sister  and  Joe  Ambler,  that's  nine. 
You  don't  know  how  quick  that  stuff  goes  when 
you  make  it." 

"We'll  use  this  bowl,"  she  insisted.  "It'll  hold 
plenty.  You  know  how  Tom  is." 

Tom  Lowrie,  husband  to  Jessie,  Harold's  first 
cousin,  was  rather  inclined  to  finish  anything  in  a 
liquid  way  that  he  began. 

Harold  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  be  foolish.  That  one  holds  only  about 
three  quarts  and  there's  nine  of  us,  and  the  ser- 
vants'll  want  some — and  it  isn't  strong  punch.  It's 
so  much  more  cheerful  to  have  a  lot,  Evie;  we  don't 
have  to  drink  all  of  it." 

"I  say  the  small  one." 

Again  he  shook  his  head  obstinately. 

"No;  be  reasonable." 

"I  am  reasonable,"  she  said  shortly.  "I  don't 
want  any  drunken  men  in  the  house." 

"Who  said  you  did?" 

"Then  use  the  small  bowl." 


138  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

"Now,  Evie- 

He  grasped  the  smaller  bowl  to  lift  it  back.  In 
stantly  her  hands  were  on  it,  holding  it  down. 
There  was  a  momentary  struggle,  and  then,  with  a 
little  exasperated  grunt,  he  raised  his  side,  slipped 
it  from  her  fingers,  and  carried  it  to  the  sideboard. 

She  looked  at  him  and  tried  to  make  her  expres 
sion  contemptuous,  but  he  only  laughed.  Acknowl 
edging  her  defeat  but  disclaiming  all  future  interest 
in  the  punch,  she  left  the  room. 


HI 

At  seven-thirty,  her  cheeks  glowing  and  her  high- 
piled  hair  gleaming  with  a  suspicion  of  brilliantine, 
Evylyn  descended  the  stairs.  Mrs.  Ahearn,  a  little 
woman  concealing  a  slight  nervousness  under  red 
hair  and  an  extreme  Empire  gown,  greeted  her  vol 
ubly.  Evylyn  disliked  her  on  the  spot,  but  the 
husband  she  rather  approved  of.  He  had  keen 
blue  eyes  and  a  natural  gift  of  pleasing  people  that 
might  have  made  him,  socially,  had  he  not  so  ob 
viously  committed  the  blunder  of  marrying  too 
early  in  his  career. 

"I'm  glad  to  know  Piper's  wife,"  he  said  simply. 
"It  looks  as  though  your  husband  and  I  are  going 
to  see  a  lot  of  each  other  in  the  future." 

She  bowed,  smiled  graciously,  and  turned  to  greet 
the  others:  Milton  Piper,  Harold's  quiet,  unasser 
tive  younger  brother;  the  two  Lowries,  Jessie  and 
Tom;  Irene,  her  own  unmarried  sister;  and  finally 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  139 

Joe  Ambler,  a  confirmed  bachelor  and  Irene's  per 
ennial  beau. 

Harold  led  the  way  into  dinner. 

"We're  having  a  punch  evening/'  he  announced 
jovially — Evylyn  saw  that  he  had  already  sampled 
his  concoction — "so  there  won't  be  any  cocktails 
except  the  punch.  It's  m'  wife's  greatest  achieve 
ment,  Mrs.  Ahearn;  she'll  give  you  the  recipe  if  you 
want  it;  but  owing  to  a  slight " — he  caught  his  wife's 
eye  and  paused — "to  a  slight  indisposition,  I'm  re 
sponsible  for  this  batch.  Here's  how!" 

All  through  dinner  there  was  punch,  and  Evylyn, 
noticing  that  Ahearn  and  Milton  Piper  and  aU  the 
women  were  shaking  their  heads  negatively  at  the 
maid,  knew  she  had  been  right  about  the  bowl;  it 
was  still  half  full.  She  resolved  to  caution  Harold 
directly  afterward,  but  when  the  women  left  the 
table  Mrs.  Ahearn  cornered  her,  and  she  found 
herself  talking  cities  and  dressmakers  with  a  polite 
show  of  interest. 

"We've  moved  around  a  lot,"  chattered  Mrs. 
Ahearn,  her  red  head  nodding  violently.  "Oh,  yes, 
we've  never  stayed  so  long  in  a  town  before — but  I 
do  hope  we're  here  for  good.  I  like  it  here;  don't 
you?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I've  always  lived  here,  so,  nat- 
urally- 

"Oh,  that's  true,"  said  Mrs.  Ahearn  and  laughed. 
"Clarence  always  used  to  tell  me  he  had  to  have  a 
wife  he  could  come  home  to  and  say:  'Well,  we're 
going  to  Chicago  to-morrow  to  live,  so  pack  up.' 


140  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

I  got  so  I  never  expected  to  live  anywhere. "  She 
laughed  her  little  laugh  again;  Evylyn  suspected 
that  it  was  her  society  laugh. 

"Your  husband  is  a  very  able  man,  I  imagine." 
"Oh,   yes,"   Mrs.   Ahearn   assured   her   eagerly. 
"He's  brainy,  Clarence  is.     Ideas  and  enthusiasm, 
you  know.    Finds  out  what  he  wants  and  then  goes 
and  gets  it." 

Evylyn  nodded.  She  was  wondering  if  the  men 
were  still  drinking  punch  back  in  the  dining-room. 
Mrs.  Ahearn's  history  kept  unfolding  jerkily,  but 
Evylyn  had  ceased  to  listen.  The  first  odor  of  massed 
cigars  began  to  drift  in.  It  wasn't  really  a  large 
house,  she  reflected;  on  an  evening  like  this  the 
library  sometimes  grew  blue  with  smoke,  and  next 
day  one  had  to  leave  the  windows  open  for  hours  to 
air  the  heavy  staleness  out  of  the  curtains.  Per 
haps  this  partnership  might  .  .  .  she  began  to  spec 
ulate  on  a  new  house  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Ahearn's  voice  drifted  in  on  her: 
"I  really  would  like  the  recipe  if  you  have  it 

written  down  somewhere " 

Then  there  was  a  sound  of  chairs  in  the  dining- 
room  and  the  men  strolled  in.  Evylyn  saw  at  once 
that  her  worst  fears  were  realized.  Harold's  face 
was  flushed  and  his  words  ran  together  at  the  ends 
of  sentences,  while  Tom  Lowrie  lurched  when  he 
walked  and  narrowly  missed  Irene's  lap  when  he 
tried  to  sink  onto  the  couch  beside  her.  He  sat 
there  blinking  dazedly  at  the  company.  Evylyn 
found  herself  blinking  back  at  him,  but  she  saw  no 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  141 

humor  in  it.  Joe  Ambler  was  smiling  contentedly 
and  purring  on  his  cigar.  Only  Ahearn  and  Milton 
Piper  seemed  unaffected. 

"It's  a  pretty  fine  town,  Ahearn,"  said  Ambler, 
"you'll  find  that." 

"I've  found  it  so,"  said  Ahearn  pleasantly. 

"You  find  it  more,  Ahearn,"  said  Harold,  nod 
ding  emphatically,  "'f  I've  an'thin'  do  'th  it." 

He  soared  into  a  eulogy  of  the  city,  and  Evylyn 
wondered  uncomfortably  if  it  bored  every  one  as  it 
bored  her.  Apparently  not.  They  were  all  listen 
ing  attentively.  Evylyn  broke  in  at  the  first  gap. 

" Where Ve  you  been  living,  Mr.  Ahearn?"  she 
asked  interestedly.  Then  she  remembered  that 
Mrs.  Ahearn  had  told  her,  but  it  didn't  matter. 
Harold  mustn't  talk  so  much.  He  was  such  an  ass 
when  he'd  been  drinking.  But  he  plopped  directly 
back  in. 

"Tell  you,  Ahearn.  Firs'  you  wanna  get  a  house 
up  here  on  the  hill.  Get  Stearne  house  or  Ridge- 
way  house.  Wanna  have  it  so  people  say:  'There's 
Ahearn  house.'  Solid,  you  know,  tha's  effec'  it 
gives." 

Evylyn  flushed.  This  didn't  sound  right  at  all. 
Still  Ahearn  didn't  seem  to  notice  anything  amiss, 
only  nodded  gravely. 

"Have  you  been  looking — "  But  her  words 
trailed  off  unheard  as  Harold's  voice  boomed  on. 

"Get  house — tha's  start.  Then  you  get  know 
people.  Snobbish  town  first  toward  outsider,  but 
not  long — not  after  know  you.  People  like  you" 


142  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

—he  indicated  Ahearn  and  his  wife  with  a  sweeping 
gesture — "all  right.  Cordial  as  an'thin'  once  get 
by  first  barrer-bar-barrer — "  He  swallowed,  and 
then  said  "barrier,"  repeated  it  masterfully. 

Evylyn  looked  appealingly  at  her  brother-in-law, 
but  before  he  could  intercede  a  thick  mumble  had 
come  crowding  out  of  Tom  Lowrie,  hindered  by 
the  dead  cigar  which  he  gripped  firmly  with  his 
teeth. 

"Huma  uma  ho  huma  ahdy  um " 

"What?"  demanded  Harold  earnestly. 

Resignedly  and  with  difficulty  Tom  removed  the 
cigar — that  is,  he  removed  part  of  it,  and  then  blew 
the  remainder  with  a  whut  sound  across  the  room, 
where  it  landed  liquidly  and  limply  in  Mrs.  Ahearn 's 
lap. 

"Beg  pardon,"  he  mumbled,  and  rose  with  the 
vague  intention  of  going  after  it.  Milton's  hand  on 
his  coat  collapsed  him  in  time,  and  Mrs.  Ahearn  not 
ungracefully  flounced  the  tobacco  from  her  skirt  to 
the  floor,  never  once  looking  at  it. 

"I  was  sayin',"  continued  Tom  thickly,  "'fore 
'at  happened" — he  waved  his  hand  apologetically 
toward  Mrs.  Ahearn — "I  was  sayin'  I  heard  all 
truth  that  Country  Club  matter." 

Milton  leaned  and  whispered  something  to  him. 

"Lemme  'lone,"  he  said  petulantly;  "know  what 
I'm  doin'.  'At's  what  they  came  for." 

Evylyn  sat  there  in  a  panic,  trying  to  make  her 
mouth  form  words.  She  saw  her  sister's  sardonic 
expression  and  Mrs.  Ahearn 's  face  turning  a  vivid 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  143 

red.  Ahearn  was  looking  down  at  his  watch-chain, 
fingering  it. 

"I  heard  who's  been  keepin'  y'  out,  an*  he's  not  a 
bit  better'n  you.  I  can  fix  whole  damn  thing  up. 
Would've  before,  but  I  didn't  know  you.  HaroP 
tol'  me  you  felt  bad  about  the  thing " 

Milton  Piper  rose  suddenly  and  awkwardly  to  his 
feet.  In  a  second  every  one  was  standing  tensely 
and  Milton  was  saying  something  very  hurriedly 
about  having  to  go  early,  and  the  Ahearns  were 
listening  with  eager  intentness.  Then  Mrs.  Ahearn 
swallowed  and  turned  with  a  forced  smile  toward 
Jessie.  Evylyn  saw  Tom  lurch  forward  and  put 
his  hand  on  Ahearn's  shoulder — and  suddenly  she 
was  listening  to  a  new,  anxious  voice  at  her  elbow, 
and,  turning,  found  Hilda,  the  second  maid. 

"Please,  Mis'  Piper,  I  tank  Yulie  got  her  hand 
poisoned.  It's  all  swole  up  and  her  cheeks  is  hot 
and  she's  moanin'  an'  groanin' ' 

"Julie  is?"  Evylyn  asked  sharply.  The  party 
suddenly  receded.  She  turned  quickly,  sought  with 
her  eyes  for  Mrs.  Ahearn,  slipped  toward  her. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  Mrs.—  She  had  momen 
tarily  forgotten  the  name,  but  she  went  right  on: 
"  My  little  girl's  been  taken  sick.  I'll  be  down  when 
I  can."  She  turned  and  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs, 
retaining  a  confused  picture  of  rays  of  cigar  smoke 
and  a  loud  discussion  in  the  centre  of  the  room  that 
seemed  to  be  developing  into  an  argument. 

Switching  on  the  light  in  the  nursery,  she  found 
Julie  tossing  feverishly  and  giving  out  odd  little 


144  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

cries.  She  put  her  hand  against  the  cheeks.  They 
were  burning.  With  an  exclamation  she  followed 
the  arm  down  under  the  cover  until  she  found  the 
hand.  Hilda  was  right.  The  whole  thumb  was 
swollen  to  the  wrist  and  in  the  centre  was  a  little  in 
flamed  sore.  Blood-poisoning!  her  mind  cried  in 
terror.  The  bandage  had  come  off  the  cut  and 
she'd  gotten  something  hi  it.  She'd  cut  it  at  three 
o'clock — it  was  now  nearly  eleven.  Eight  hours. 
Blood-poisoning  couldn't  possibly  develop  so  soon. 
She  rushed  to  the  'phone. 

Doctor  Martin  across  the  street  was  out.  Doctor 
Foulke,  their  family  physician,  didn't  answer.  She 
racked  her  brains  and  in  desperation  called  her  throat 
specialist,  and  bit  her  lip  furiously  while  he  looked 
up  the  numbers  of  two  physicians.  During  that  in 
terminable  moment  she  thought  she  heard  loud 
voices  down-stairs — but  she  seemed  to  be  hi  another 
world  now.  After  fifteen  minutes  she  located  a 
physician  who  sounded  angry  and  sulky  at  being 
called  out  of  bed.  She  ran  back  to  the  nursery  and, 
looking  at  the  hand,  found  it  was  somewhat  more 
swollen. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  cried,  and  kneeling  beside  the 
bed  began  smoothing  back  Julie's  hair  over  and 
over.  With  a  vague  idea  of  getting  some  hot  water, 
she  rose  and  started  toward  the  door,  but  the  lace 
of  her  dress  caught  in  the  bed-rail  and  she  fell  for 
ward  on  her  hands  and  knees.  She  struggled  up 
and  jerked  frantically  at  the  lace.  The  bed  moved 
and  Julie  groaned.  Then  more  quietly  but  with 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  145 

suddenly  fumbling  fingers  she  found  the  pleat  in 
front,  tore  the  whole  pannier  completely  off,  and 
rushed  from  the  room. 

Out  in  the  hall  she  heard  a  single  loud,  insistent 
voice,\  but  as  she  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs  it 
ceased  and  an  outer  door  banged. 

The  music-room  came  into  view.  Only  Harold 
and  Milton  were  there,  the  former  leaning  against 
a  chair,  his  face  very  pale,  his  collar  open,  and  his 
mouth  moving  loosely. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Milton  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"There  was  a  little  trouble " 

Then  Harold  saw  her  and,  straightening  up  with 
an  effort,  began  to  speak. 

"'Suit  m'own  cousin  m'own  house.  God  damn 
common  nouveau  rish.  'Suit  m'own  cousin " 

"Tom  had  trouble  with  Ahearn  and  Harold  in 
terfered,"  said  Milton. 

"My  Lord,  Milton,"  cried  Evylyn,  "couldn't 
you  have  done  something?" 

"I  tried;  I " 

"Julie's  sick,"  she  interrupted;  "she's  poisoned 
herself.  Get  him  to  bed  if  you  can." 

Harold  looked  up. 

"Julie  sick?" 

Paying  no  attention,  Evylyn  brushed  by  through 
the  dining-room,  catching  sight,  with  a  burst  of 
horror,  of  the  big  punch-bowl  still  on  the  table,  the 
liquid  from  melted  ice  in  its  bottom.  She  heard 
steps  on  the  front  stairs — it  was  Milton  helping 


146  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Harold  up — and  then  a  mumble:  "Why,  Julie's 
a'righ'." 

"  Don't  let  him  go  into  the  nursery !"  she  shouted. 

The  hours  blurred  into  a  nightmare.  The  doctor 
arrived  just  before  midnight  and  within  a  half-hour 
had  lanced  the  wound.  He  left  at  two  after  giving 
her  the  addresses  of  two  nurses  to  call  up  and  prom 
ising  to  return  at  half  past  six.  It  was  blood- 
poisoning. 

At  four,  leaving  Hilda  by  the  bedside,  she  went  to 
her  room,  and  slipping  with  a  shudder  out  of  her 
evening  dress,  kicked  it  into  a  corner.  She  put  on 
a  house  dress  and  returned  to  the  nursery  while 
Hilda  went  to  make  coffee. 

Not  until  noon  could  she  bring  herself  to  look 
into  Harold's  room,  but  when  she  did  it  was  to  find 
him  awake  and  staring  very  miserably  at  the  ceiling. 
He  turned  blood-shot  hollow  eyes  upon  her.  For  a 
minute  she  hated  him,  couldn't  speak.  A  husky 
voice  came  from  the  bed. 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Noon." 

"I  made  a  damn  fool " 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said  sharply.  "Julie's 
got  blood-poisoning.  They  may" — she  choked  over 
the  words — "they  think  she'll  have  to  lose  her  hand." 

"What?" 

"She  cut  herself  on  that— that  bowl." 

"Last  night?" 

"Oh,  what  does  it  matter?"  she  cried;  "she's  got 
blood-poisoning.  Can't  you  hear?" 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  147 

He  looked  at  her  bewildered — sat  half-way  up  in 
bed. 

"I'll  get  dressed,"  he  said. 

Her  anger  subsided  and  a  great  wave  of  weariness 
and  pity  for  him  rolled  over  her.  After  all,  it  was 
his  trouble,  too. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  listlessly,  "I  suppose  you'd 
better." 

IV 

If  Evylyn's  beauty  had  hesitated  in  her  early 
thirties  it  came  to  an  abrupt  decision  just  after 
ward  and  completely  left  her.  A  tentative  outlay 
of  wrinkles  on  her  face  suddenly  deepened  and  flesh 
collected  rapidly  on  her  legs  and  hips  and  arms. 
Her  mannerism  of  drawing  her  brows  together  had 
become  an  expression — it  was  habitual  when  she 
was  reading  or  speaking  and  even  while  she  slept. 
She  was  forty-six. 

As  in  most  families  whose  fortunes  have  gone  down 
rather  than  up,  she  and  Harold  had  drifted  into  a 
colorless  antagonism.  In  repose  they  looked  at  each 
other  with  the  toleration  they  might  have  felt  for 
broken  old  chairs;  Evylyn  worried  a  little  when  he 
was  sick  and  did  her  best  to  be  cheerful  under  the 
wearying  depression  of  living  with  a  disappointed 
man. 

Family  bridge  was  over  for  the  evening  and  she 
sighed  with  relief.  She  had  made  more  mistakes 
than  usual  this  evening  and  she  didn't  care.  Irene 
shouldn't  have  made  that  remark  about  the  infantry 


148          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

being  particularly  dangerous.  There  had  been  no 
letter  for  three  weeks  now,  and,  while  this  was 
nothing  out  of  the  ordinary,  it  never  failed  to  make 
her  nervous;  naturally  she  hadn't  known  how  many 
clubs  were  out. 

Harold  had  gone  up-stairs,  so  she  stepped  out  on 
the  porch  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  There  was  a 
bright  glamour  of  moonlight  diffusing  on  the  side 
walks  and  lawns,  and  with  a  little  half  yawn,  half 
laugh,  she  remembered  one  long  moonlight  affair  of 
her  youth.  It  was  astonishing  to  think  that  life 
had  once  been  the  sum  of  her  current  love-affairs. 
It  was  now  the  sum  of  her  current  problems. 

There  was  the  problem  of  Julie — Julie  was  thir 
teen,  and  lately  she  was  growing  more  and  more 
sensitive  about  her  deformity  and  preferred  to  stay 
always  in  her  room  reading.  A  few  years  before 
she  had  been  frightened  at  the  idea  of  going  to 
school,  and  Evylyn  could  not  bring  herself  to  send 
her,  so  she  grew  up  in  her  mother's  shadow,  a  pitiful 
little  figure  with  the  artificial  hand  that  she  made 
no  attempt  to  use  but  kept  forlornly  in  her  pocket. 
Lately  she  had  been  taking  lessons  in  using  it  be 
cause  Evylyn  had  feared  she  would  cease  to  lift  the 
arm  altogether,  but  after  the  lessons,  unless  she 
made  a  move  with  it  in  listless  obedience  to  her 
mother,  the  little  hand  would  creep  back  to  the 
pocket  of  her  dress.  For  a  while  her  dresses  were 
made  without  pockets,  but  Julie  had  moped  around 
the  house  so  miserably  at  a  loss  all  one  month  that 
Evylyn  weakened  and  never  tried  the  experiment 
again. 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  149 

The  problem  of  Donald  had  been  different  from 
the  start.  She  had  attempted  vainly  to  keep  him 
near  her  as  she  had  tried  to  teach  Julie  to  lean  less 
on  her — lately  the  problem  of  Donald  had  been 
snatched  out  of  her  hands;  his  division  had  been 
abroad  for  three  months. 

She  yawned  again — life  was  a  thing  for  youth. 
What  a  happy  youth  she  must  have  had !  She  re 
membered  her  pony,  Bijou,  and  the  trip  to  Europe 
with  her  mother  when  she  was  eighteen 

"Very,  very  complicated,"  she  said  aloud  and 
severely  to  the  moon,  and,  stepping  inside,  was 
about  to  close  the  door  when  she  heard  a  noise  in 
the  library  and  started. 

It  was  Martha,  the  middle-aged  servant:  they 
kept  only  one  now. 

"Why,  Martha!"  she  said  in  surprise. 

Martha  turned  quickly. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  was  up-stairs.    I  was  jist ' J 

"Is  anything  the  matter?" 

Martha  hesitated. 

"No;  I—"  She  stood  there  fidgeting.  "It  was 
a  letter,  Mrs.  Piper,  that  I  put  somewhere." 

"A  letter?  Your  own  letter?"  asked  Evylyn, 
switching  on  the  light. 

"No,  it  was  to  you.  'Twas  this  afternoon,  Mrs. 
Piper,  in  the  last  mail.  The  postman  give  it  to  me 
and  then  the  back  door-bell  rang.  I  had  it  in  my 
hand,  so  I  must  have  stuck  it  somewhere.  I  thought 
I'd  just  slip  in  now  and  find  it." 

"What  sort  of  a  letter?    From  Mr.  Donald?" 


150  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"No,  it  was  an  advertisement,  maybe,  or  a  busi' 
ness  letter.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  one,  I  remember/4 

They  began  a  search  through  the  music-room, 
looking  on  trays  and  mantelpieces,  and  then 
through  the  library,  feeling  on  the  tops  of  rows  of 
books.  Martha  paused  in  despair. 

"I  can't  think  where.  I  went  straight  to  the 
kitchen.  The  dining-room,  maybe. "  She  started 
hopefully  for  the  dining-room,  but  turned  suddenly 
at  the  sound  of  a  gasp  behind  her.  Evylyn  had  sat 
down  heavily  in  a  Morris  chair,  her  brows  drawn 
very  close  together,  eyes  blinking  furiously. 

"Are  you  sick?" 

For  a  minute  there  was  no  answer.  Evylyn  sat 
there  very  still  and  Martha  could  see  the  very  quick 
rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom. 

"Are  you  sick?"  she  repeated. 

"No,"  said  Evylyn  slowly,  "but  I  know  where 
the  letter  is.  Go  'way,  Martha.  I  know." 

Wonderingly,  Martha  withdrew,  and  still  Evylyn 
sat  there,  only  the  muscles  around  her  eyes  moving 
—contracting  and  relaxing  and  contracting  again. 
She  knew  now  where  the  letter  was — she  knew  as 
well  as  it  she  had  put  it  there  herself.  And  she  felt 
instinctively  and  unquestionably  what  the  letter 
was.  It  was  long  and  narrow  like  an  advertisement, 
but  up  in  the  corner  in  large  letters  it  said  "War 
Department"  and,  in  smaller  letters  below,  "Official 
Business."  She  knew  it  lay  there  in  the  big  bowl 
with  her  name  in  ink  on  the  outside  and  her  soul's 
death  within. 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  151 

Rising  uncertainly,  she  walked  toward  the  dining- 
room,  feeling  her  way  along  the  bookcases  and 
through  the  doorway.  After  a  moment  she  found 
the  light  and  switched  it  on. 

There  was  the  bowl,  reflecting  the  electric  light 
in  crimson  squares  edged  with  black  and  yellow 
squares  edged  with  blue,  ponderous  and  glittering, 
grotesquely  and  triumphantly  ominous.  She  took 
a  step  forward  and  paused  again;  another  step  and 
she  would  see  over  the  top  and  into  the  inside — 
another  step  and  she  would  see  an  edge  of  white — 
another  step — her  hands  fell  on  the  rough,  cold  sur 
face 

In  a  moment  she  was  tearing  it  open,  fumbling 
with  an  obstinate  fold,  holding  it  before  her  while 
the  typewritten  page  glared  out  and  struck  at  her. 
Then  it  fluttered  like  a  bird  to  the  floor.  The  house 
that  had  seemed  whirring,  buzzing  a  moment  since, 
was  suddenly  very  quiet;  a  breath  of  air  crept  in 
through  the  open  front  door  carrying  the  noise  of 
a  passing  motor;  she  heard  faint  sounds  from  up 
stairs  and  then  a  grinding  racket  in  the  pipe  behind 
the  bookcases — her  husband  turning  off  a  water- 
tap— 

And  in  that  instant  it  was  as  if  this  were  not, 
after  all,  Donald's  hour  except  in  so  far  as  he  was  a 
marker  in  the  insidious  contest  that  had  gone  on  in 
sudden  surges  and  long,  listless  interludes  between 
Evylyn  and  this  cold,  malignant  thing  of  beauty,  a 
gift  of  enmity  from  a  man  whose  face  she  had  long 
since  forgotten.  With  its  massive,  brooding  pas. 


152  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

sivity  it  lay  there  in  the  centre  of  her  house  as  it 
had  lain  for  years,  throwing  out  the  ice-like  beams 
of  a  thousand  eyes,  perverse  glitterings  merging 
each  into  each,  never  aging,  never  changing. 

Evylyn  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and 
stared  at  it  fascinated.  It  seemed  to  be  smiling 
now,  a  very  cruel  smile,  as  if  to  say: 

"You  see,  this  time  I  didn't  have  to  hurt  you  di 
rectly.  I  didn't  bother.  You  know  it  was  I  who 
took  your  son  away.  You  know  how  cold  I  am 
and  how  hard  and  how  beautiful,  because  once  you 
were  just  as  cold  and  hard  and  beautiful." 

The  bowl  seemed  suddenly  to  turn  itself  over  and 
then  to  distend  and  swell  until  it  became  a  great 
canopy  that  glittered  and  trembled  over  the  room, 
over  the  house,  and,  as  the  walls  melted  slowly  into 
mist,  Evylyn  saw  that  it  was  still  moving  out,  out 
and  far  away  from  her,  shutting  off  far  horizons  and 
suns  and  moons  and  stars  except  as  inky  blots  seen 
faintly  through  it.  And  under  it  walked  all  the 
people,  and  the  light  that  came  through  to  them 
was  refracted  and  twisted  until  shadow  seemed  light 
and  light  seemed  shadow — until  the  whole  panorama 
of  the  world  became  changed  and  distorted  under 
the  twinkling  heaven  of  the  bowl. 

Then  there  came  a  far-away,  booming  voice  like 
a  low,  clear  bell.  It  came  from  the  centre  of  the 
bowl  and  down  the  great  sides  to  the  ground  and 
then  bounced  toward  her  eagerly. 

"You  see,  I  am  fate,"  it  shouted,  "and  stronger 
than  your  puny  plans;  and  I  am  how-things-turn- 


THE  CUT-GLASS  BOWL  153 

out  and  I  am  different  from  your  little  dreams,  and 
I  am  the  flight  of  time  and  the  end  of  beauty  and 
unfulfilled  desire;  all  the  accidents  and  impercep- 
tions  and  the  little  minutes  that  shape  the  crucial 
hours  are  mine.  I  am  the  exception  that  proves  no 
rules,  the  limits  of  your  control,  the  condiment  in 
the  dish  of  life." 

The  booming  sound  stopped;  the  echoes  rolled 
away  over  the  wide  land  to  the  edge  of  the  bowl 
that  bounded  the  world  and  up  the  great  sides  and 
back  to  the  centre  where  they  hummed  for  a  mo 
ment  and  died.  Then  the  great  walls  began  slowly 
to  bear  down  upon  her,  growing  smaller  and  smaller, 
coming  closer  and  closer  as  if  to  crush  her;  and  as 
she  clinched  her  hands  and  waited  for  the  swift 
bruise  of  the  cold  glass,  the  bowl  gave  a  sudden 
wrench  and  turned  over — and  lay  there  on  the  side 
board,  shining  and  inscrutable,  reflecting  in  a  hun 
dred  prisms,  myriad,  many-colored  glints  and  gleams 
and  crossings  and  interfacings  of  light. 

The  cold  wind  blew  in  again  through  the  front 
door,  and  with  a  desperate,  frantic  energy  Evylyn 
stretched  both  her  arms  around  the  bowl.  She  must 
be  quick — she  must  be  strong.  She  tightened  her 
arms  until  they  ached,  tauted  the  thin  strips  of  muscle 
under  her  soft  flesh,  and  with  a  mighty  effort  raised 
it  and  held  it.  She  felt  the  wind  blow  cold  on  her 
back  where  her  dress  had  come  apart  from  the  strain 
of  her  effort,  and  as  she  felt  it  she  turned  toward  it 
and  staggered  under  the  great  weight  out  through 
the  library  and  on  toward  the  front  door.  She  must 


154  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

be  quick — she  must  be  strong.  The  blood  in  her 
arms  throbbed  dully  and  her  knees  kept  giving  way 
under  her,  but  the  feel  of  the  cool  glass  was  good. 

Out  the  front  door  she  tottered  and  over  to  the 
stone  steps,  and  there,  summoning  every  fibre  of 
her  soul  and  body  for  a  last  effort,  swung  herself 
half  around— for  a  second,  as  she  tried  to  loose  her 
hold,  her  numb  fingers  clung  to  the  rough  surface, 
and  in  that  second  she  slipped  and,  losing  balance, 
toppled  forward  with  a  despairing  cry,  her  arms  still 
around  the  bowl  .  .  .  down  .  .  . 

Over  the  way  lights  went  on;  far  down  the  block 
the  crash  was  heard,  and  pedestrians  rushed  up 
wonderingly;  up-stairs  a  tired  man  awoke  from  the 
edge  of  sleep  and  a  little  girl  whimpered  in  a  haunted 
doze.  And  all  over  the  moonlit  sidewalk  around  the 
still,  black  form,  hundreds  of  prisms  and  cubes  and 
splinters  of  glass  reflected  the  light  in  little  gleams 
of  blue,  and  black  edged  with  yellow,  and  yellow, 
and  crimson  edged  with  black. 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR 

AFTER  dark  on  Saturday  night  one  could  stand  on 
the  first  tee  of  the  golf-course  and  see  the  country- 
club  windows  as  a  yellow  expanse  over  a  very  black 
and  wavy  ocean.  The  waves  of  this  ocean,  so  to 
speak,  were  the  heads  of  many  curious  caddies,  a 
few  of  the  more  ingenious  chauffeurs,  the  golf  pro 
fessional's  deaf  sister — and  there  were  usually  sev 
eral  stray,  diffident  waves  who  might  have  rolled 
inside  had  they  so  desired.  This  was  the  gallery. 

The  balcony  was  inside.  It  consisted  of  the  circle 
of  wicker  chairs  that  lined  the  wall  of  the  combina 
tion  clubroom  and  ballroom.  At  these  Saturday- 
night  dances  it  was  largely  feminine;  a  great  babel 
of  middle-aged  ladies  with  sharp  eyes  and  icy  hearts 
behind  lorgnettes  and  large  bosoms.  The  main 
function  of  the  balcony  was  critical.  It  occasionally 
showed  grudging  admiration,  but  never  approval, 
for  it  is  well  known  among  ladies  over  thirty-five 
that  when  the  younger  set  dance  in  the  summer-time 
it  is  with  the  very  worst  intentions  in  the  world, 
and  if  they  are  not  bombarded  with  stony  eyes  stray 
couples  will  dance  weird  barbaric  interludes  in  the 
corners,  and  the  more  popular,  more  dangerous,  girls 
will  sometimes  be  kissed  in  the  parked  limousines 
of  unsuspecting  dowagers. 

But,  after  all,  this  critical  circle  is  not  close  enough 
to  the  stage  to  see  the  actors'  faces  and  catch  the 

155 


1,56  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

subtler  byplay.  It  can  only  frown  and  lean,  ask 
questions  and  make  satisfactory  deductions  from  its 
set  of  postulates,  such  as  the  one  which  states  that 
every  young  man  with  a  large  income  leads  the  life 
of  a  hunted  partridge.  It  never  really  appreciates 
the  drama  of  the  shifting,  semicruel  world  of  ado 
lescence.  No;  boxes,  orchestra-circle,  principals,  and 
chorus  are  represented  by  the  medley  of  faces  and 
voices  that  sway  to  the  plaintive  African  rhythm 
of  Dyer's  dance  orchestra. 

From  sixteen-year-old  Otis  Ormonde,  who  has 
two  more  years  at  Hill  School,  to  G.  Reece  Stoddard, 
over  whose  bureau  at  home  hangs  a  Harvard  law 
diploma;  from  little  Madeleine  Hogue,  whose  hair 
still  feels  strange  and  uncomfortable  on  top  of  her 
head,  to  Bessie  MacRae,  who  has  been  the  life  of 
the  party  a  little  too  long — more  than  ten  years — 
the  medley  is  not  only  the  centre  of  the  stage  but 
contains  the  only  people  capable  of  getting  an  un 
obstructed  view  of  it. 

With  a  flourish  and  a  bang  the  music  stops.  The 
couples  exchange  artificial,  effortless  smiles,  fa 
cetiously  repeat  "la-de-da-da  dum-dum,"  and  then 
the  clatter  of  young  feminine  voices  soars  over  the 
burst  of  clapping. 

A  few  disappointed  stags  caught  in  midfloor  as 
they  had  been  about  to  cut  in  subsided  listlessly 
back  to  the  walls,  because  this  was  not  like  the 
riotous  Christmas  dances — these  summer  hops  were 
considered  just  pleasantly  warm  and  exciting,  where 
even  the  younger  marrieds  rose  and  performed  an- 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  157 

cient  waltzes  and  terrifying  fox  trots  to  the  tolerant 
amusement  of  their  younger  brothers  and  sisters. 

Warren  Mclntyre,  who  casually  attended  Yale, 
being  one  of  the  unfortunate  stags,  felt  hi  his  dinner- 
coat  pocket  for  a  cigarette  and  strolled  out  onto 
the  wide,  semidark  veranda,  where  couples  were 
scattered  at  tables,  filling  the  lantern-hung  night 
with  vague  words  and  hazy  laughter.  He  nodded 
here  and  there  at  the  less  absorbed  and  as  he  passed 
each  couple  some  half-forgotten  fragment  of  a  story 
played  in  his  mind,  for  it  was  not  a  large  city  and 
every  one  was  Who's  Who  to  every  one  else's  past. 
There,  for  example,  were  Jim  Strain  and  Ethel 
Demorest,  who  had  been  privately  engaged  for  three 
years.  Every  one  knew  that  as  soon  as  Jim  man 
aged  to  hold  a  job  for  more  than  two  months  she 
would  marry  him.  Yet  how  bored  they  both  looked, 
and  how  wearily  Ethel  regarded  Jim  sometimes,  as 
if  she  wondered  why  she  had  trained  the  vines  of 
her  affection  on  such  a  wind-shaken  poplar. 

Warren  was  nineteen  and  rather  pitying  with 
those  of  his  friends  who  hadn't  gone  East  to  college. 
But,  like  most  boys,  he  bragged  tremendously  about 
the  girls  of  his  city  when  he  was  away  from  it. 
There  was  Genevieve  Ormonde,  who  regularly  made 
the  rounds  of  dances,  house-parties,  and  football 
games  at  Princeton,  Yale,  Williams,  and  Cornell; 
there  was  black-eyed  Roberta  Dillon,  who  was  quite 
as  famous  to  her  own  generation  as  Hiram  Johnson 
or  Ty  Cobb;  and,  of  course,  there  was  Marjorie 
Harvey,  who  besides  having  a  fairylike  face  and  a 


158  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

dazzling,  bewildering  tongue  was  already  justly 
celebrated  for  having  turned  five  cart-wheels  in  suc 
cession  during  the  last  pump-and-slipper  dance  at 
New  Haven. 

Warren,  who  had  grown  up  across  the  street  from 
Marjorie,  had  long  been  "  crazy  about  her."  Some 
times  she  seemed  to  reciprocate  his  feeling  with  a 
faint  gratitude,  but  she  had  tried  him  by  her  inf alli- 
ble  test  and  informed  him  gravely  that  she  did  not 
love  him.  Her  test  was  that  when  she  was  away 
from  hun  she  forgot  him  and  had  affairs  with  other 
boys.  Warren  found  this  discouraging,  especially  as 
Marjorie  had  been  making  little  trips  all  summer, 
and  for  the  first  two  or  three  days  after  each  arrival 
home  he  saw  great  heaps  of  mail  on  the  Harveys' 
hall  table  addressed  to  her  in  various  masculine 
handwritings.  To  make  matters  worse,  all  during 
the  month  of  August  she  had  been  visited  by  her 
cousin  Bernice  from  Eau  Claire,  and  it  seemed  im 
possible  to  see  her  alone.  It  was  always  necessary 
to  hunt  round  and  find  some  one  to  take  care  of  Ber 
nice.  As  August  waned  this  was  becoming  more  and 
more  difficult. 

Much  as  Warren  worshipped  Marjorie,  he  had  to 
admit  that  Cousin  Bernice  was  sorta  Iftppeless.  She 
was  pretty,  with  dark  hair  and  high  color,  but  she 
was  no  fun  on  a  party.  Every  Saturday  night  he 
danced  a  long  arduous  duty  dance  with  her  to  please 
Marjorie,  but  he  had  never  been  anything  but  bored 
in  her -company. 

" Warren" — a  soft  voice  at  his  elbow  broke  in 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  159 

upon  his  thoughts,  and  he  turned  to  see  Marjorie, 
flushed  and  radiant  as  usual.  She  laid  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  a  glow  settled  almost  impercep 
tibly  over  him. 

"Warren,"  she  whispered,  "do  something  for  me 
— dance  with  Bernice.  She's  been  stuck  with  little 
Otis  Ormonde  for  almost  an  hour." 

Warren's  glow  faded. 

"Why — sure,"  he  answered  half-heartedly. 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?  I'll  see  that  you 
don't  get  stuck." 

"'Sail  right." 

Marjorie  smiled — that  smile  that  was  thanks 
enough. 

"You're  an  angel,  and  I'm  obliged  loads." 

With  a  sigh  the  angel  glanced  round  the  veranda, 
but  Bernice  and  Otis  were  not  in  sight.  He  wan 
dered  back  inside,  and  there  in  front  of  the  women's 
dressing-room  he  found  Otis  in  the  centre  of  a  group 
of  young  men  who  were  convulsed  with  laughter. 
Otis  was  brandishing  a  piece  of  timber  he  had 
picked  up,  and  discoursing  volubly. 

"She's  gone  in  to  fix  her  hair,"  he  announced 
wildly.  "I'm  waiting  to  dance  another  hour  with 
her." 

Their  laughter  was  renewed. 

"Why  don't  some  of  you  cut  in?"  cried  Otis  re 
sentfully.  "She  likes  more  variety." 

"Why,  Otis,"  suggested  a  friend,  "you've  just 
barely  got  used  to  her." 

"Why  the  two-by-four,  Otis?"  inquired  Warren, 
smiling. 


160  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"The  two-by-four?  Oh,  this?  This  is  a  club. 
When  she  comes  out  I'll  hit  her  on  the  head  and 
knock  her  in  again." 

Warren  collapsed  on  a  settee  and  howled  with 
glee. 

"Never  mind,  Otis/'  he  articulated  finally.  "I'm 
relieving  you  this  tune." 

Otis  simulated  a  sudden  fainting  attack  and 
handed  the  stick  to  Warren. 

"If  you  need  it,  old  man/'  he  said  hoarsely. 

No  matter  how  beautiful  or  brilliant  a  girl  may 
be,  the  reputation  of  not  being  frequently  cut  in 
on  makes  her  position  at  a  dance  unfortunate. 
Perhaps  boys  prefer  her  company  to  that  of  the 
butterflies  with  whom  they  dance  a  dozen  times  an 
evening,  but  youth  hi  this  jazz-nourished  generation 
is  temperamentally  restless,  and  the  idea  of  fox 
trotting  more  than  one  full  fox  trot  with  the  same 
girl  is  distasteful,  not  to  say  odious.  When  it  comes 
to  several  dances  and  the  intermissions  between  she 
can  be  quite  sure  that  a  young  man,  once  relieved, 
will  never  tread  on  her  wayward  toes  again. 

Warren  danced  the  next  full  dance  with  Bernice, 
and  finally,  thankful  for  the  intermission,  he  led 
her  to  a  table  on  the  veranda.  There  was  a  mo 
ment's  silence  while  she  did  unimpressive  things 
with  her  fan. 

"It's  hotter  here  than  in  Eau  Claire,"  she  said. 

Warren  stifled  a  sigh  and  nodded.  It  might  be 
for  all  he  knew  or  cared.  He  wondered  idly  whether 
she  was  a  poor  conversationalist  because  she  got  no 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  161 

attention  or  got  no  attention  because  she  was  a 
poor  conversationalist. 

"You  going  to  be  here  much  longer?"  he  asked, 
and  then  turned  rather  red.  She  might  suspect 
his  reasons  for  asking. 

"Another  week,"  she  answered,  and  stared  at 
him  as  if  to  lunge  at  his  next  remark  when  it  left 
his  lips. 

Warren  fidgeted.  Then  with  a  sudden  charitable 
impulse  he  decided  to  try  part  of  his  line  on  her. 
He  turned  and  looked  at  her  eyes. 

"You've  got  an  awfully  kissable  mouth,"  he  began 
quietly. 

This  was  a  remark  that  he  sometimes  made  to 
girls  at  college  proms  when  they  were  talking  in  just 
such  half  dark  as  this.  Bernice  distinctly  jumped. 
She  turned  an  ungraceful  red  and  became  clumsy 
with  her  fan.  No  one  had  ever  made  such  a  re 
mark  to  her  before. 

"Fresh!" — the  word  had  slipped  out  before  she 
realized  it,  and  she  bit  her  lip.  Too  late  she  de 
cided  to  be  amused,  and  offered  him  a  flustered 
smile. 

Warren  was  annoyed.  Though  not  accustomed  to 
have  that  remark  taken  seriously,  still  it  usually 
provoked  a  laugh  or  a  paragraph  of  sentimental 
banter.  And  he  hated  to  be  called  fresh,  except  in 
a  joking  way.  His  charitable  impulse  died  and 
he  switched  the  topic. 

"Jim  Strain  and  Ethel  Demorest  sitting  out  as 
usual,"  he  commented. 


162          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

This  was  more  in  Bernice's  line,  but  a  faint  re 
gret  mingled  with  her  relief  as  the  subject  changed. 
Men  did  not  talk  to  her  about  kissable  mouths,  but 
she  knew  that  they  talked  in  some  such  way  to 
other  girls. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  and  laughed.  "  I  hear  they  Ve 
been  mooning  round  for  years  without  a  red  penny. 
Isn't  it  silly?" 

Warren's  disgust  increased.  Jim  Strain  was  a 
close  friend  of  his  brother's,  and  anyway  he  con 
sidered  it  bad  form  to  sneer  at  people  for  not  having 
money.  But  Bernice  had  had  no  intention  of  sneer 
ing.  She  was  merely  nervous. 

II 

When  Marjorie  and  Bernice  reached  home  at 
half  after  midnight  they  said  good  night  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs.  Though  cousins,  they  were  not  in 
timates.  As  a  matter  of  fact  Marjorie  had  no  female 
intimates — she  considered  girls  stupid.  Bernice  on 
the  contrary  all  through  this  parent-arranged  visit 
had  rather  longed  to  exchange  those  confidences 
flavored  with  giggles  and  tears  that  she  considered 
an  indispensable  factor  in  all  feminine  intercourse. 
But  in  this  respect  she  found  Marjorie  rather  cold; 
felt  somehow  the  same  difficulty  in  talking  to  her 
that  she  had  in  talking  to  men.  Marjorie  never 
giggled,  was  never  frightened,  seldom  embarrassed, 
and  in  fact  had  very  few  of  the  qualities  which  Ber 
nice  considered  appropriately  and  blessedly  feminine. 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  163 

As  Bernice  busied  herself  with  tooth-brush  and 
paste  this  night  she  wondered  for  the  hundredth 
time  why  she  never  had  any  attention  when  she 
was  away  from  home.  That  her  family  were  the 
wealthiest  in  Eau  Claire;  that  her  mother  enter 
tained  tremendously,  gave  little  dinners  for  her 
daughter  before  all  dances  and  bought  her  a  car  of 
her  own  to  drive  round  in,  never  occurred  to  her  as 
factors  in  her  home-town  social  success.  Like  most 
girls  she  had  been  brought  up  on  the  warm  milk 
prepared  by  Annie  Fellows  Johnston  and  on  novels 
in  which  the  female  was  beloved  because  of  certain 
mysterious  womanly  qualities,  always  mentioned 
but  never  displayed. 

Bernice  felt  a  vague  pain  that  she  was  not  at 
present  engaged  in  being  popular.  She  did  not 
know  that  had  it  not  been  for  Marjorie's  campaign 
ing  she  would  have  danced  the  entire  evening  with 
one  man;  but  she  knew  that  even  in  Eau  Claire 
other  girls  with  less  position  and  less  pulchritude 
were  given  a  much  bigger  rush.  She  attributed  this 
to  something  subtly  unscrupulous  in  those  girls. 
It  had  never  worried  her,  and  if  it  had  her  mother 
would  have  assured  her  that  the  other  girls  cheap: 
ened  themselves  and  that  men  really  respected  girls 
like  Bernice. 

She  turned  out  the  light  in  her  bathroom,  and  on 
an  impulse  decided  to  go  in  and  chat  for  a  moment 
with  her  aunt  Josephine,  whose  light  was  still  on. 
Her  soft  slippers  bore  her  noiselessly  down  the  car 
peted  hall,  but  hearing  voices  inside  she  stopped 


1 64  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

near  the  partly  opened  door.    Then  she  caught  her 

own  name,  and  without  any  definite  intention  of 

eavesdropping  lingered — and  the  thread  of  the  con- 

t  versation  going  on  inside  pierced  her  consciousness 

J  sharply  as  if  it  had  been  drawn  through  with  a  needle. 

"She's  absolutely  hopeless!"  It  was  Marjorie's 
voice.  "Oh,  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say !  So 
many  people  have  told  you  how  pretty  and  sweet 
she  is,  and  how  she  can  cook !  What  of  it  ?  She 
has  a  bum  time.  Men  don't  like  her." 

"What's  a  little  cheap  popularity?" 

Mrs.  Harvey  sounded  annoyed. 

"It's  everything  when  you're  eighteen,"  said  Mar- 
jorie  emphatically.  "I've  done  my  best.  I've  been 
polite  and  I've  made  men  dance  with  her,  but  they 
just  won't  stand  being  bored.  When  I  think  of  that 
gorgeous  coloring  wasted  on  such  a  ninny,  and  think 
what  Martha  Carey  could  do  with  it — oh ! " 

"There's  no  courtesy  these  days." 

Mrs.  Harvey's  voice  implied  that  modern  situa 
tions  were  too  much  for  her.  When  she  was  a  girl 
all  young  ladies  who  belonged  to  nice  families  had 
glorious  times. 

"Well,"  said  Marjorie,  "no  girl  can  permanently 
bolster  up  a  lame-duck  visitor,  because  these  days 
it's  every  girl  for  herself.  I've  even  tried  to  drop 
her  hints  about  clothes  and  things,  and  she's  been 
furious — given  me  the  funniest  looks.  She's  sen 
sitive  enough  to  know  she's  not  getting  away  with 
much,  but  I'll  bet  she  consoles  herself  by  thinking 
that  she's  very  virtuous  and  that  I'm  too  gay  and 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  165 

fickle  and  will  come  to  a  bad  end.  All  unpopular 
girls  think  that  way.  Sour  grapes !  Sarah  Hopkins 
refers  to  Genevieve  and  Roberta  and  me  as  gar 
denia  girls !  I'll  bet  she'd  give  ten  years  of  her  life 
and  her  European  education  to  be  a  gardenia  girl 
and  have  three  or  four  men  in  love  with  her  and  be 
cut  in  on  every  few  feet  at  dances. " 

"It  seems  to  me,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Harvey  rather 
wearily,  "that  you  ought  to  be  able  to  do  something 
for  Bernice.  I  know  she's  not  very  vivacious." 

Marjorie  groaned. 

"Vivacious!  Good  grief!  I've  never  heard  her 
say  anything  to  a  boy  except  that  it's  hot  or  the 
floor's  crowded  or  that  she's  going  to  school  in  New 
York  next  year.  Sometimes  she  asks  them  what 
kind  of  car  they  have  and  tells  them  the  kind  she 
has.  Thrilling!" 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  Harvey 
took  up  her  refrain: 

"All  I  know  is  that  other  girls  not  half  so  sweet 
and  attractive  get  partners.  Martha  Carey,  for 
instance,  is  stout  and  loud,  and  her  mother  is  dis 
tinctly  common.  Roberta  Dillon  is  so  thin  this 
year  that  she  looks  as  though  Arizona  were  the  place 
for  her.  She's  dancing  herself  to  death." 

"But,  mother,"  objected  Marjorie  impatiently, 
"Martha  is  cheerful  and  awfully  witty  and  an  aw 
fully  slick  girl,  and  Roberta's  a  marvellous  dancer. 
She's  been  popular  for  ages !" 

Mrs.  Harvey  yawned. 

"I  think  it's  that  crazy  Indian  blood  in  Bernice," 


1 66  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

continued  Marjorie.  "Maybe  she's  a  reversion  to 
type.  Indian  women  all  just  sat  round  and  never 
said  any  thing. " 

"Go  to  bed,  you  silly  child/'  laughed  Mrs.  Har 
vey.  "I  wouldn't  have  told  you  that  if  I'd  thought 
you  were  going  to  remember  it.  And  I  think  most 
of  your  ideas  are  perfectly  idiotic,"  she  finished 
sleepily. 

There  was  another  silence,  while  Marjorie  con 
sidered  whether  or  not  convincing  her  mother  was 
worth  the  trouble.  People  over  forty  can  seldom 
be  permanently  convinced  of  anything.  At  eighteen 
our  convictions  are  hills  from  which  weTogk;  at 

forty.  fivfr~>hpy  qfrp  ra.vps  "^J^j^h  wf*  hi^f* 

Having  decided  this,  Marjorie  said  good  night. 
When  she  came  out  into  the  hall  it  was  quite  empty. 

Ill 

While  Marjorie  was  breakfasting  late  next  day 
Bernice  came  into  the  room  with  a  rather  formal 
good  morning,  sat  down  opposite,  stared  intently 
over  and  slightly  moistened  her  lips. 

"What's  on  your  mind?"  inquired  Marjorie, 
rather  puzzled. 

Bernice  paused  before  she  threw  her  hand-grenade. 

"I  heard  what  you  said  abou;t  me  to  your  mother 
last  night." 

Marjorie  was  startled,  but  she  showed  only  a 
faintly  heightened  color  and  her  voice  was  quite 
even  when  shejspoke. 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  167 

"Where  were  you?" 

"In  the  hall.    I  didn't  mean  to  listen— at  first." 

After  an  involuntary  look  of  contempt  Marjorie 
dropped  her  eyes  and  became  very  interested  in 
balancing  a  stray  corn-flake  on  her  finger. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  go  back  to  Eau  Claire — if  I'm 
such  a  nuisance."  Bernice's  lower  lip  was  trembling 
violently  and  she  continued  on  a  wavering  note: 
"I've  tried  to  be  nice,  and — and  I've  been  first 
neglected  and  then  insulted.  No  one  ever  visited 
me  and  got  such  treatment." 

Marjorie  was  silent. 

"But  I'm  in  the  way,  I  see.  I'm  a  drag  on  you. 
Your  friends  don't  like  me."  She  paused,  and  then 
remembered  another  one  of  her  grievances.  "Of 
course  I  was  furious  last  week  when  you  tried  to 
hint  to  me  that  that  dress  was  unbecoming.  Don't 
you  think  I  know  how  to  dress  myself?" 

"No,"  murmured  Marjorie  less  than  half-aloud. 

"What?" 

"I  didn't  hint  anything,"  said  Marjorie  succinctly. 
"  I  said,  as  I  remember,  that  it  was  better  to  wear  a 
becoming  dress  three  times  straight  than  to  alter 
nate  it  with  two  frights." 

"  Do  you  think  that  was  a  very  nice  thing  to  say  ?  " 

"I  wasn't  trying  to  be  nice."  Then  after  a 
pause:  "When  do  you  want  to  go?" 

Bernice  drew  in  her  breath  sharply. 

"Oh!"    It  was  a  little  half-cry. 

Marjorie  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Didn't  you  say  you  were  going?" 


1 68          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"Yes,  but " 

"Oh,  you  were  only  bluffing!" 

They  stared  at  each  other  across  the  breakfast- 
table  for  a  moment.  Misty  waves  were  passing  be 
fore  Bernice's  eyes,  while  Marjorie's  face  wore  that 
rather  hard  expression  that  she  used  when  slightly 
intoxicated  undergraduates  were  making  love  to  her. 

"So  you  were  bluffing,"  she  repeated  as  if  it  were 
what  she  might  have  expected. 

Bernice  admitted  it  by  bursting  into  tears.  Mar 
jorie's  eyes  showed  boredom. 

"You're  my  cousin,"  sobbed  Bernice.  "I'm 
v-v-visiting  you.  I  was  to  stay  a  month,  and  if  I 
go  home  my  mother  will  know  and  she'll  wah- 
wonder " 

Marjorie  waited  until  the  shower  of  broken  words 
collapsed  into  little  sniffles. 

"I'll  give  you  my  month's  allowance,"  she  said 
coldly,  "  and  you  can  spend  this  last  week  anywhere 
you  want.  There's  a  very  nice  hotel — 

Bernice's  sobs  rose  to  a  flute  note,  and  rising  of  a 
sudden  she  fled  from  the  room. 

An  hour  later,  while  Marjorie  was  in  the  library 
absorbed  in  composing  one  of  those  non-committal, 
marvellously  elusive  letters  that  only  a  young  girl 
can  write,  Bernice  reappeared,  very  red-eyed  and 
consciously  calm.  She  cast  no  glance  at  Marjorie 
but  took  a  book  at  random  from  the  shelf  and  sat 
down  as  if  to  read.  Marjorie  seemed  absorbed  in 
her  letter  and  continued  writing.  When  the  clock 
showed  noon  Bernice  closed  her  book  with  a  snap. 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  169 

"I  suppose  I'd  better  get  my  railroad  ticket." 

This  was  not  the  beginning  of  the  speech  she  had 
rehearsed  up-stairs,  but  as  Marjorie  was  not  getting 
her  cues — wasn't  urging  her  to  be  reasonable;  it's 
all  a  mistake — it  was  the  best  opening  she  could 
muster. 

"Just  wait  till  I  finish  this  letter,"  said  Marjorie 
without  looking  round.  "I  want  to  get  it  off  in 
the  next  mail." 

After  another  minute,  during  which  her  pen 
scratched  busily,  she  turned  round  and  relaxed  with 
an  air  of  "at  your  service."  Again  Bernice  had  to 
speak. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  home?" 

"Well,"  said  Marjorie,  considering,  "I  suppose 
if  you're  not  having  a  good  time  you'd  better  go. 
No  use  being  miserable." 

"Don't  you  think  common  kindness " 

"Oh,  please  don't  quote  ' Little  Women'!"  cried 
Marjorie  impatiently.  "That's  out  of  style." 

"You  think  so?" 

"Heavens,  yes !  What  modern  girl  could  live  like 
those  inane  females?" 

"They  were  the  models  for  our  mothers." 

Marjorie  laughed. 

"  Yes,  they  were — not !  Besides,  our  mothers  were 
all  very  well  hi  their  way,  but  they  know  very  little 
about  their  daughters'  problems." 

Bernice  drew  herself  up. 

"Please  don't  talk  about  my  mother." 

Marjorie  laughed. 


1 70  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"I  don't  think  I  mentioned  her." 

Bernice  felt  that  she  was  being  led  away  from  her 
subject. 

"Do  you  think  you've  treated  me  very  well?" 

"I've  done  my  best.  You're  rather  hard  material 
to  work  with." 

The  lids  of  Bernice's  eyes  reddened. 

"I  think  you're  hard  and  selfish,  and  you  haven't 
a  feminine  quality  in  you." 

"Oh,  my  Lord!"  cried  Marjorie  in  desperation. 
"You  little  nut !  Girls  like  you  are  responsible  for 
all  the  tiresome  colorless  marriages;  all  those  ghastly 
inefficiencies  that  pass  as  feminine  qualities.  What  a 
blow  it  must  be  when  a  man  with  imagination  mar 
ries  the  beautiful  bundle  of  clothes  that  he's  been 
building  ideals  round,  and  finds  that  she's  just  a 
weak,  whining,  cowardly  mass  of  affectations!" 

Bernice's  mouth  had  slipped  half  open. 

"The  womanly  woman!"  continued  Marjorie. 
"  Her  whole  early  life  is  occupied  in  whining  criticisms 
of  girls  like  me  who  really  do  have  a  good  time." 

Bernice's  jaw  descended  farther  as  Marjorie's 
voice  rose. 

"There's  some  excuse  for  an  ugly  girl  whining. 
If  I'd  been  irretrievably  ugly  I'd  never  have  forgiven 
my  parents  for  bringing  me  into  the  world.  But 
you're  starting  life  without  any  handicap —  Mar 
jorie's  little  fist  clinched.  "If  you  expect  me  to 
weep  with  you  you'll  be  disappointed.  Go  or  stay, 
just  as  you  like."  And  picking  up  her  letters  she 
left  the  room. 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  171 

Bernice  claimed  a  headache  and  failed  to  appear 
at  luncheon.  They  had  a  matinee  date  for  the 
afternoon,  but  the  headache  persisting,  Marjorie 
made  explanation  to  a  not  very  downcast  boy.  But 
when  she  returned  late  in  the  afternoon  she  found 
Bernice  with  a  strangely  set  face  waiting  for  her  hi 
her  bedroom. 

"I've  decided,"  began  Bernice  without  prelimi 
naries,  "that  maybe  you're  right  about  things — pos 
sibly  not.  But  if  you'll  tell  me  why  your  friends 
aren't — aren't  interested  in  me  I'll  see  if  I  can  do 
what  you  want  me  to." 

Marjorie  was  at  the  mirror  shaking  down  her  hair. 

"Do  you  mean  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Without  reservations?  Will  you  do  exactly 
what  I  say?" 

"Well,  I " 

"Well  nothing!    Will  you  do  exactly  as  I  say?" 

"If  they're  sensible  things." 

"They're  not!  You're  no  case  for  sensible 
things." 

"Are  you  going  to  make — to  recommend ' 

"Yes,  everything.  If  I  tell  you  to  take  boxing- 
lessons  you'll  have  to  do  it.  Write  home  and  tell 
your  mother  you're  going  to  stay  another  two 
weeks." 

"If  you'll  tell  me- 

"All  right — I'll  just  give  you  a  few  examples 
now.  First,  you  have  no  ease  of  manner.  Why? 
Because  you're  never  sure  about  your  personal  ap- 


172  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

pearance.  When  a  girl  feels  that  she's  perfectly 
groomed  and  dressed  she  can  forget  that  part  of 
her.  That's  charm.  The  more  parts  of  yourself  you 
can  afford  to  forget  the  more  charm  you  have." 

"Don't  I  look  all  right?" 

"No;  for  instance,  you  never  take  care  of  your 
eyebrows.  They're  black  and  lustrous,  but  by 
leaving  them  straggly  they're  a  blemish.  They'd 
be  beautiful  if  you'd  take  care  of  them  in  one-tenth 
the  time  you  take  doing  nothing.  You're  going  to 
brush  them  so  that  they'll  grow  straight." 

Bernice  raised  the  brows  in  question. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  men  notice  eyebrows?" 

"Yes — subconsciously.  And  when  you  go  home 
you  ought  to  have  your  teeth  straightened  a  little. 
It's  almost  imperceptible,  still " 

"But  I  thought,"  interrupted  Bernice  in  bewil 
derment,  "that  you  despised  little  dainty  feminine 
things  like  that." 

"I  hate  dainty  minds,"  answered  Marjorie. 
"But  a  girl  has  to  be  dainty  in  person.  If  she  looks 
like  a  million  dollars  she  can  talk  about  Russia, 
ping-pong,  or  the  League  of  Nations  and  get  away 
with  it." 

"What  else?" 

"Oh,  I'm  just  beginning !    There's  your  dancing." 

"Don't  I  dance  all  right?" 

"No,  you  don't — you  lean  on  a  man;  yes,  you 
do — ever  so  slightly.  I  noticed  it  when  we  were 
dancing  together  yesterday.  And  you  dance  stand 
ing  up  straight  instead  of  bending  over  a  little. 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  173 

Probably  some  old  lady  on  the  side-line  once  told 
you  that  you  looked  so  dignified  that  way.  But 
except  with  a  very  small  girl  it's  much  harder  on 
the  man,  and  he's  the  one  that  counts." 

"Go  on."    Bernice's  brain  was  reeling. 

"Well,  youVe  got  to  learn  to  be  nice  to  men  who 
are  sad  birds.  You  look  as  if  you'd  been  insulted 
whenever  you're  thrown  with  any  except  the  most 
popular  boys.  Why,  Bernice,  I'm  cut  in  on  every 
few  feet — and  who  does  most  of  it?  Why,  those 
very  sad  birds.  No  girl  can  afford  to  neglect  them. 
They're  the  big  part  of  any  crowd.  Young  boys 
too  shy  to  talk  are  the  very  best  conversational 
practice.  Clumsy  boys  are  the  best  dancing  prac 
tice.  If  you  can  follow  them  and  yet  look  graceful 
you  can  follow  a  baby  tank  across  a  barb-wire 
sky-scraper." 

Bernice  sighed  profoundly,  but  Marjorie  was  not 
through. 

"If  you  go  to  a  dance  and  really  amuse,  say,  three 
sad  birds  that  dance  with  you;  if  you  talk  so  well 
to  them  that  they  forget  they're  stuck  with  you, 
you've  done  something.  They'll  come  back  next 
time,  and  gradually  so  many  sad  birds  will  dance 
with  you  that  the  attractive  boys  will  see  there's 
no  danger  of  being  stuck — then  they'll  dance  with 
you." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Bernice  faintly.  "I  think  I  begin 
to  see." 

"And  finally,"  concluded  Marjorie,  "poise  and 
charm  will  just  come.  You'll  wake  up  some  morn- 


174  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

ing  knowing  you've  attained  it,  and  men  will  know 
it  too." 

Bernice  rose. 

"It's  been  awfully  kind  of  you — but  nobody's 
ever  talked  to  hie  like  this  before,  and  I  feel  sort  of 
startled." 

Marjorie  made  no  answer  but  gazed  pensively  at 
her  own  image  in  the  mirror. 

"You're  a  peach  to  help  me,"  continued  Bernice. 

Still  Marjorie  did  not  answer,  and  Bernice  thought 
she  had  seemed  too  grateful. 

"I  know  you  don't  like  sentiment,"  she  said 
timidly. 

Marjorie  turned  to  her  quickly. 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  about  that.  I  was  con 
sidering  whether  we  hadn't  better  bob  your  hair." 

Bernice  collapsed  backward  upon  the  bed. 

IV 

On  the  following  Wednesday  evening  there  was  a 
dinner-dance  at  the  country  club.  When  the  guests 
strolled  in  Bernice  found  her  place-card  with  a  slight 
feeling  of  irritation.  Though  at  her  right  sat  G. 
Reece  Stoddard,  a  most  desirable  and  distinguished 
young  bachelor,  the  all-important  left  held  only 
Charley  Paulson.  Charley  lacked  height,  beauty, 
and  social  shrewdness,  and  in  her  new  enlighten 
ment  Bernice  decided  that  his  only  qualification  to 
be  her  partner  was  that  he  had  never  been  stuck 
with  her.  But  this  feeling  of  irritation  left  with  the 


\ 

BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  175 

last  of  the  soup-plates,  and  Marjorie's  specific  in 
struction  came  to  her.  Swallowing  her  pride  she 
turned  to  Charley  Paulson  and  plunged. 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  bob  my  hair,  Mr. 
Charley  Paulson?" 

Charley  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I'm  considering  it.  It's  such  a  sure 
and  easy  way  of  attracting  attention." 

Charley  smiled  pleasantly.  He  could  not  know 
this  had  been  rehearsed.  He  replied  that  he  didn't 
know  much  about  bobbed  hair.  But  Bernice  was 
there  to  tell  him. 

"I  want  to  be  a  society  vampire,  you  see,"  she 
announced  coolly,  and  went  on  to  inform  him  that 
bobbed  hair  was  the  necessary  prelude.  She  added 
that  she  wanted  to  ask  his  advice,  because  she  had 
heard  he  was  so  critical  about  girls. 

Charley,  who  knew  as  much  about  the  psychology  1 
of  women  as  he  did  of  the  mental  states  of  Buddhist  I 
contemplatives,  felt  vaguely  flattered. 

"So  I've  decided,"  she  continued,  her  voice  rising 
slightly,  "that  early  next  week  I'm  going  down  to 
the  Sevier  Hotel  barber-shop,  sit  in  the  first  chair, 
and  get  my  hair  bobbed."  She  faltered,  noticing 
that  the  people  near  her  had  paused  in  their  conver 
sation  and  were  listening;  but  after  a  confused  second 
Marjorie's  coaching  told,  and  she  finished  her  para 
graph  to  the  vicinity  at  large.  "Of  course  I'm 
charging  admission,  but  if  you'll  all  come  down  and 
encourage  me  I'll  issue  passes  for  the  inside  seats." 


176          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

There  was  a  ripple  of  appreciative  laughter,  and 
under  cover  of  it  G.  Reece  Stoddard  leaned  over 
quickly  and  said  close  to  her  ear:  "I'll  take  a  box 
right  now." 

She  met  his  eyes  and  smiled  as  if  he  had  said 
something  surpassingly  brilliant. 

"Do  you  believe  in  bobbed  hair?"  asked  G. 
Reece  in  the  same  undertone. 

"I  think  it's  unmoral,"  affirmed  Bernice  gravely. 
"But,  of  course,  you've  either  got  to  amuse  people 
or  feed  'em  or  shock  'em."  Marjorie  had  culled 
this  from  Oscar  Wilde.  It  was  greeted  with  a  ripple 
of  laughter  from  the  men  and  a  series  of  quick,  in 
tent  looks  from  the  girls.  And  then  as  though  she 
had  said  nothing  of  wit  or  moment  Bernice  turned 
again  to  Charley  and  spoke  confidentially  in  his  ear. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  your  opinion  of  several  peo 
ple.  I  imagine  you're  a  wonderful  judge  of  char 
acter." 

Charley  thrilled  faintly — paid  her  a  subtle  com 
pliment  by  overturning  her  water. 

Two  hours  later,  while  Warren  Mclntyre  was 
standing  passively  in  the  stag  line  abstractedly 
watching  the  dancers  and  wondering  whither  and 
with  whom  Marjorie  had  disappeared,  an  unrelated 
perception  began  to  creep  slowly  upon  him — a  per 
ception  that  Bernice,  cousin  to  Marjorie,  had  been 
cut  in  on  several  times  in  the  past  five  minutes. 
He  closed  his  eyes,  opened  them  and  looked  again. 
Several  minutes  back  she  had  been  dancing  with  a 
visiting  boy,  a  matter  easily  accounted  for;  a  visit- 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  177 

ing  boy  would  know  no  better.  But  now  she  was 
dancing  with  some  one  else,  and  there  was  Charley 
Paulson  headed  for  her  with  enthusiastic  determina 
tion  in  his  eye.  Funny — Charley  seldom  danced 
with  more  than  three  girls  an  evening. 

Warren  was  distinctly  surprised  when — the  ex 
change  having  been  effected — the  man  relieved 
proved  to  be  none  other  than  G.  Reece  Stoddard 
himself.  And  G.  Reece  seemed  not  at  all  jubilant 
at  being  relieved.  Next  time  Bernice  danced  near, 
Warren  regarded  her  intently.  Yes,  she  was  pretty, 
distinctly  pretty;  and  to-night  her  face  seemed 
really  vivacious.  She  had  that  look  that  no  woman,  * 
however  histrionically  proficient,  can  successfully  | 
counterfeit — she  looked  as  if  she  were  having  a  good 
time.  He  liked  the  way  she  had  her  hair  arranged, 
wondered  if  it  was  brilliantine  that  made  it  glisten 
so.  And  that  dress  was  becoming — a  dark  red  that 
set  off  her  shadowy  eyes  and  high  coloring.  He  re 
membered  that  he  had  thought  her  pretty  when  she 
first  came  to  town,  before  he  had  realized  that  she 
was  dull.  Too  bad  she  was  dull — dull  girls  unbear 
able — certainly  pretty  though. 

His  thoughts  zigzagged  back  to  Marjorie.  This 
disappearance  would  be  like  other  disappearances. 
When  she  reappeared  he  would  demand  where  she 
had  been — would  be  told  emphatically  that  it  was 
none  of  his  business.  What  a  pity  she  was  so  sure 
of  him !  She  basked  in  the  knowledge  that  no  other 
girl  in  town  interested  him;  she  defied  him  to  fall 
in  love  with  Genevieve  or  Roberta. 


1 78  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Warren  sighed.  The  way  to  Marjorie's  affec 
tions  was  a  labyrinth  indeed.  He  looked  up.  Ber- 
nice  was  again  dancing  with  the  visiting  boy.  Half 
unconsciously  he  took  a  step  out  from  the  stag  line 
in  her  direction,  and  hesitated.  Then  he  said  to 
himself  that  it  was  charity.  He  walked  toward  her 
— collided  suddenly  with  G.  Reece  Stoddard. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Warren. 

But  G.  Reece  had  not  stopped  to  apologize.  He 
had  again  cut  in  on  Bernice. 

That  night  at  one  o'clock  Marjorie,  with  one 
hand  on  the  electric-light  switch  in  the  hall,  turned 
to  take  a  last  look  at  Bernice's  sparkling  eyes. 

"  So  it  worked  ?" 

"Oh,  Marjorie,  yes!"  cried  Bernice. 

"I  saw  you  were  having  a  gay  time." 

"  I  did !    The  only  trouble  was  that  about  mid 
night  I  ran  short  of  talk.     I  had  to  repeat  myself— 
with  different  men  of  course.   I  hope  they  won't 
compare  notes." 

"Men  don't,"  said  Marjorie,  yawning,  "and  it 
wouldn't  matter  if  they  did — they'd  think  you  were 
even  trickier." 

She  snapped  out  the  light,  and  as  they  started  up 
the  stairs  Bernice  grasped  the  banister  thankfully. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  been  danced 
tired. 

"You  see,"  said  Marjorie  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
"one  man  sees  another  man  cut  in  and  he  thinks 
there  must  be  something  there.  Well,  we'll  fix  up 
some  new  stuff  to-morrow.  Good  night." 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  179 

"fcood  night." 

As  Bernice  took  down  her  hair  she  passed  the 
evening  before  her  in  review.  She  had  followed  in 
structions  exactly.  Even  when  Charley  Paulson 
cut  in  for  the  eighth  time  she  had  simulated  delight 
and  had  apparently  been  both  interested  and  flat 
tered.  She  had  not  talked  about  the  weather  or 
Eau  Claire  or  automobiles  or  her  school,  but  had 
confined  her  conversation  to  me,  .yau^nd  us. 

But  a  few  minutes  before  she  fell  asleep  a  rebel 
lious  thought  was  churning  drowsily  hi  her  brain — 
after  all,  it  was  she  who  had  done  it.  Marjorie,  to 
be  sure,  had  given  her  her  conversation,  but  then 
Marjorie  got  much  of  her  conversation  out  of  things 
she  read.  Bernice  had  bought  the  red  dress,  though 
she  had  never  valued  it  highly  before  Marjorie  dug 
it  out  of  her  trunk — and  her  own  voice  had  said  the 
words,  her  own  lips  had  smiled,  her  own  feet  had 
danced.  Marjorie  nice  girl — vain,  though — nice 
evening — nice  boys — like  Warren — Warren — Warren 
— what's-his-name — Warren 

She  fell  asleep. 


To  Bernice  the  next  week  was  a  revelation.  With 
the  feeling  that  people  really  enjoyed  looking  at  her 
and  listening  to  her  came  the  foundation  of  self- 
confidence.  Of  course  there  were  numerous  mis 
takes  at  first.  She  did  not  know,  for  instance,  that 
Draycott  Deyo  was  studying  for  the  ministry;  she 
was  unaware  that  he  had  cut  in  on  her  because  he 


i8o  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

thought  she  was  a  quiet,  reserved  girl.  Had  she 
known  these  things  she  would  not  have  treated  him 
to  the  line  which  began  "Hello,  Shell  Shock!"  and 
continued  with  the  bathtub  story — "It  takes  a 
frightful  lot  of  energy  to  fix  my  hair  in  the  summer 
— there's  so  much  of  it — so  I  always  fix  it  first  and 
powder  my  face  and  put  on  my  hat;  then  I  get 
into  the  bathtub,  and  dress  afterward.  Don't  you 
think  that's  the  best  plan?" 

Though  Draycott  Deyo  was  in  the  throes  of  diffi 
culties  concerning  baptism  by  immersion  and  might 
possibly  have  seen  a  connection,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  he  did  not.  He  considered  feminine  bathing  an 
unmoral  subject,  and  gave  her  some  of  his  ideas  on 
the  depravity  of  modern  society. 

But  to  offset  that  unfortunate  occurrence  Bernice 
had  several  signal  successes  to  her  credit.  Little 
Otis  Ormonde  pleaded  off  from  a  trip  East  and  elected 
instead  to  follow  her  with  a  puppylike  devotion,  to 
the  amusement  of  his  crowd  and  to  the  irritation  of 
G.  Reece  Stoddard,  several  of  whose  afternoon  calls 
Otis  completely  ruined  by  the  disgusting  tenderness 
of  the  glances  he  bent  on  Bernice.  He  even  told 
her  the  story  of  the  two-by-four  and  the  dressing- 
room  to  show  her  how  frightfully  mistaken  he  and 
every  one  else  had  been  in  their  first  judgment  of  her. 
Bernice  laughed  off  that  incident  with  a  slight  sink 
ing  sensation. 

Of  all  Bernice's  conversation  perhaps  the  best 
known  and  most  universally  approved  was  the  line 
about  the  bobbing  of  her  hair. 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  181 

"Oh,  Bernice,  when  you  goin'  to  get  the  hair 
bobbed?" 

"Day  after  to-morrow  maybe,"  she  would  reply, 
laughing.  "Will  you  come  and  see  me?  Because 
I'm  counting  on  you,  you  know." 

"Will  we?  You  know!  But  you  better  hurry 
up." 

Bernice,  whose  tonsorial  intentions  were  strictly 
dishonorable,  would  laugh  again. 

"Pretty  soon  now.    You'd  be  surprised." 

But  perhaps  the  most  significant  symbol  of  her 
success  was  the  gray  car  of  the  hypercritical  Warren 
Mclntyre,  parked  daily  in  front  of  the  Harvey  house. 
At  first  the  parlor-maid  was  distinctly  startled  when 
he  asked  for  Bernice  instead  of  Marjorie;  after  a 
week  of  it  she  told  the  cook  that  Miss  Bernice  had 
gotta  holda  Miss  Marjorie's  best  fella. 

And  Miss  Bernice  had.  Perhaps  it  began  with 
Warren's  desire  to  rouse  jealousy  in  Marjorie;  per 
haps  it  was  the  familiar  though  unrecognized  strain 
of  Marjorie  in  Bernice's  conversation;  perhaps  it 
was  both  of  these  and  something  of  sincere  attrac 
tion  besides.  But  somehow  the  collective  mind  of 
the  younger  set  knew  within  a  week  that  Mar- 
jorie's  most  reliable  beau  had  made  an  amazing 
face-about  and  was  giving  an  indisputable  rush  to 
Marjorie's  guest.  The  question  of  the  moment 
was  how  Marjorie  would  take  it.  Warren  called 
Bernice  on  the  'phone  twice  a  day,  sent  her  notes, 
and  they  were  frequently  seen  together  in  his  road 
ster,  obviously  engrossed  in  one  of  those  tense, 


1 82  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

significant  conversations  as  to  whether  or  not  he 
was  sincere. 

Marjorie  on  being  twitted  only  laughed.  She 
said  she  was  mighty  glad  that  Warren  had  at  last 
found  some  one  who  appreciated  him.  So  the 
younger  set  laughed,  too,  and  guessed  that  Mar 
jorie  didn't  care  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

One  afternoon  when  there  were  only  three  days 
left  of  her  visit  Bernice  was  waiting  in  the  hall  for 
Warren,  with  whom  she  was  going  to  a  bridge  party. 
She  was  in  rather  a  blissful  mood,  and  when  Mar 
jorie — also  bound  for  the  party — appeared  beside 
her  and  began  casually  to  adjust  her  hat  in  the 
mirror,  Bernice  was  utterly  unprepared  for  anything 
in  the  nature  of  a  clash.  Marjorie  did  her  work 
very  coldly  and  succinctly  in  three  sentences. 

"You  may  as  well  get  Warren  out  of  your  head/' 
she  said  coldly. 

"What?"    Bernice  wts  utterly  astounded. 

"You  may  as  well  stop  making  a  fool  of  yourself 
over  Warren  Mclntyre.  He  doesn't  care  a  snap  of 
his  fingers  about  you." 

For  a  tense  moment  they  regarded  each  other — 
Marjorie  scornful,  aloof;  Bernice  astounded,  half- 
angry,  half -afraid.  Then  two  cars  drove  up  in  front 
of  the  house  and  there  was  a  riotous  honking.  Both 
of  them  gasped  faintly,  turned,  and  side  by  side 
hurried  out. 

All  through  the  bridge  party  Bernice  strove  in 
vain  to  master  a  rising  uneasiness.  She  had  offended 
Marjorie,  the  sphinx  of  sphinxes.  With  the  most 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  183 

wholesome  and  innocent  intentions  in  the  world  she 
had  stolen  Marjorie's  property.  She  felt  suddenly 
and  horribly  guilty.  After  the  bridge  game,  when 
they  sat  in  an  informal  circle  and  the  conversation 
became  general,  the  storm  gradually  broke.  Little 
Otis  Ormonde  inadvertently  precipitated  it. 

"When  you  going  back  to  kindergarten,  Otis?" 
some  one  had  asked. 

"Me?    Day  Bernice  gets  her  hair  bobbed." 

"Then  your  education's  over,"  said  Marjorie 
quickly.  "That's  only  a  bluff  of  hers.  I  should 
think  you'd  have  realized." 

"That  a  fact?"  demanded  Otis,  giving  Bernice  a 
reproachful  glance. 

Bernice's  ears  burned  as  she  tried  to  think  up  an 
effectual  come-back.  In  the  face  of  this  direct  at 
tack  her  imagination  was  paralyzed. 

"There's  a  lot  of  bluffs  in  the  world,"  continued 
Marjorie  quite  pleasantly.  "I  should  think  you'd 
be  young  enough  to  know  that,  Otis." 

"Well,"  said  Otis,  "maybe  so.  But  gee!  With 
a  line  like  Bernice's " 

"Really ? "  yawned  Marjorie.  "What's  her  latest 
bon  mot?" 

No  one  seemed  to  know.  In  fact,  Bernice,  hav 
ing  trifled  with  her  muse's  beau,  had  said  nothing 
memorable  of  late. 

"Was  that  really  all  a  line?"  asked  Roberta  curi 
ously, 

Bernice  hesitated.  She  felt  that  wit  in  some  form 
was  demanded  of  her,  but  under  her  cousin's 


1 84  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

suddenly  frigid  eyes  she  was  completely  incapaci 
tated. 

"I  don't  know/'  she  stalled. 

"  Splush ! "  said  Marjorie.     "  Admit  it ! " 

Bernice  saw  that  Warren's  eyes  had  left  a  ukulele 
he  had  been  tinkering  with  and  were  fixed  on  her 
questioningly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !"  she  repeated  steadily.  Her 
cheeks  were  glowing. 

"Splush!"  remarked  Marjorie  again. 

"Come  through,  Bernice,"  urged  Otis.  "Tell  her 
where  to  get  off." 

Bernice  looked  round  again — she  seemed  unable 
to  get  away  from  Warren's  eyes. 

"I  like  bobbed  hair,"  she  said  hurriedly,  as  if  he 
had  asked  her  a  question,  "and  I  intend  to  bob 
mine." 

"When?"  demanded  Marjorie. 

"Any  time." 

"No  time  like  the  present,"  suggested  Roberta. 

Otis  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Good  stuff!"  he  cried.  "We'll  have  a  summer 
bobbing  party.  Sevier  Hotel  barber-shop,  I  think 
you  said." 

In  an  instant  all  were  on  their  feet.  Bernice's 
heart  throbbed  violently. 

"What?"  she  gasped. 

Out  of  the  group  came  Marjorie's  voice,  very  clear 
and  contemptuous. 

"Don't  worry— -she'll  back  out!" 

"Come  on,  Bernice!"  cried  Otis,  starting  toward 
the  door. 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  185 

Four  eyes — Warren's  and  Marjorie's — stared  at 
her,  challenged  her,  defied  her.  For  another  second 
she  wavered  wildly. 

"  All  right,"  she  said  swiftly,  "I  don't  care  if  I  do." 

An  eternity  of  minutes  later,  riding  down-town 
through  the  late  afternoon  beside  Warren,  the  others 
following  in  Roberta's  car  close  behind,  Bernice  had 
all  the  sensations  of  Marie  Antoinette  bound  for  the 
guillotine  hi  a  tumbrel.  Vaguely  she  wondered 
why  she  did  not  cry  out  that  it  was  all  a  mistake. 
It  was  all  she  could  do  to  keep  from  clutching  her 
hair  with  both  hands  to  protect  it  from  the  suddenly 
hostile  world.  Yet  she  did  neither.  Even  the 
thought  of  her  mother  was  no  deterrent  now.  This 
was  the  test  supreme  of  her  sportsmanship;  her  right 
to  walk  unchallenged  in  the  starry  heaven  of  popular 
girls. 

Warren  was  moodily  silent,  and  when  they  came 
to  the  hotel  he  drew  up  at  the  curb  and  nodded  to 
Bernice  to  precede  him  out.  Roberta's  car  emptied 
a  laughing  crowd  into  the  shop,  which  presented 
two  bold  plate-glass  windows  to  the  street. 

Bernice  stood  on  the  curb  and  looked  at  the  sign, 
Sevier  Barber-Shop.  It  was  a  guillotine  indeed, 
and  the  hangman  was  the  first  barber,  who,  attired 
in  a  white  coat  and  smoking  a  cigarette,  leaned  non 
chalantly  against  the  first  chair.  He  must  have 
heard  of  her;  he  must  have  been  waiting  all  week, 
smoking  eternal  cigarettes  beside  that  portentous, 
too-often-mentioned  first  chair.  Would  they  blind 
fold  her?  No,  but  they  would  tie  a  white  cloth 


1 86  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

round  her  neck  lest  any  of  her  blood — nonsense — 
hair — should  get  on  her  clothes. 

"All  right,  Bernice,"  said  Warren  quickly. 

With  her  chin  in  the  air  she  crossed  the  sidewalk, 
pushed  open  the  swinging  screen-door,  and  giving 
not  a  glance  to  the  uproarious,  riotous  row  that 
occupied  the  waiting  bench,  went  up  to  the  first 
barber. 

"I  want  you  to  bob  my  hair." 

The  first  barber's  mouth  slid  somewhat  open. 
His  cigarette  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"Huh?" 

"My  hair— bob  it!" 

Refusing  further  preliminaries,  Bernice  took  her 
seat  on  high.  A  man  in  the  chair  next  to  her  turned 
on  his  side  and  gave  her  a  glance,  half  lather,  half 
amazement.  One  barber  started  and  spoiled  little 
Willy  Schuneman's  monthly  haircut.  Mr.  O'Reilly 
in  the  last  chair  grunted  and  swore  musically  in 
ancient  Gaelic  as  a  razor  bit  into  his  cheek.  Two 
bootblacks  became  wide-eyed  and  rushed  for  her 
feet.  No,  Bernice  didn't  care  for  a  shine. 

Outside  a  passer-by  stopped  and  stared;  a  couple 
joined  him;  half  a  dozen  small  boys'  noses  sprang 
into  life,  flattened  against  the  glass;  and  snatches 
of  conversation  borne  on  the  summer  breeze  drifted 
in  through  the  screen-door. 

"Lookada  long  hair  on  a  kid !" 

"  Where'd  yuh  get  'at  stuff  ?  'At's  a  bearded  lady 
he  just  finished  shavin'." 

But  Bernice  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing.    Her 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  187 

only  living  sense  told  her  that  this  man  in  the  white 
coat  had  removed  one  tortoise-shell  comb  and  then 
another;  that  his  fingers  were  fumbling  clumsily 
with  unfamiliar  hairpins;  that  this  hair,  this  wonder 
ful  hair  of  hers,  was  going — she  would  never  again 
feel  its  long  voluptuous  pull  as  it  hung  in  a  dark- 
brown  glory  down  her  back.  For  a  second  she  was 
near  breaking  down,  and  then  the  picture  before 
her  swam  mechanically  into  her  vision — Marjorie's 
mouth  curling  in  a  faint  ironic  smile  as  if  to  say: 

"  Give  up  and  get  down !  You  tried  to  buck  me 
and  I  called  your  bluff.  You  see  you  haven't  got  a 
prayer." 

And  some  last  energy  rose  up  in  Bernice,  for  she 
clinched  her  hands  under  the  white  cloth,  and  there 
was  a  curious  narrowing  of  her  eyes  that  Marjorie 
remarked  on  to  some  one  long  afterward. 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  barber  swung  her 
round  to  face  the  mirror,  and  she  flinched  at  the 
full  extent  of  the  damage  that  had  been  wrought. 
Her  hair  was  not  curly,  and  now  it  lay  in  lank  life 
less  blocks  on  both  sides  of  her  suddenly  pale  face. 
It  was  ugly  as  sin — she  had  known  it  would  be  ugly 
as  sin.  Her  face's  chief  charm  had  been  a  Madonna- 
like  simplicity.  Now  that  was  gone  and  she  was — 
well,  frightfully  mediocre — not  stagy;  only  ridic 
ulous,  like  a  Greenwich  Villager  who  had  left  her 
spectacles  at  home. 

As  she  climbed  down  from  the  chair  she  tried  to 
smile — failed  miserably.  She  saw  two  of  the  girls 
exchange  glances;  noticed  Marjorie's  mouth  curved 


1 88          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

in  attenuated  mockery — and  that  Warren's  eyes 
were  suddenly  very  cold. 

"You  see" — her  words  fell  into  an  awkward 
pause — "I've  done  it." 

"Yes,  youVe — done  it,"  admitted  Warren. 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

There  was  a  half-hearted  "Sure"  from  two  or 
three  voices,  another  awkward  pause,  and  then  Mar- 
jorie  turned  swiftly  and  with  serpentlike  intensity 
to  Warren. 

"Would  you  mind  running  me  down  to  the 
cleaners?"  she  asked.  "Fve  simply  got  to  get  a 
dress  there  before  supper.  Roberta's  driving  right 
home  and  she  can  take  the  others." 

Warren  stared  abstractedly  at  some  infinite  speck 
out  the  window.  Then  for  an  instant  his  eyes  rested 
coldly  on  Bernice  before  they  turned  to  Marjorie. 

"Be  glad  to,"  he  said  slowly. 

VI 

Bernice  did  not  fully  realize  the  outrageous  trap 
that  had  been  set  for  her  until  she  met  her  aunt's 
amazed  glance  just  before  dinner. 

"Why,  Bernice!" 

"I've  bobbed  it,  Aunt  Josephine." 

"Why,  child!" 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"Why,  Ber-nice!" 

"I  suppose  I've  shocked  you," 

"No,  but  what'll  Mrs.  Deyo  think  to-morrow 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  189 

night?  Bernice,  you  should  have  waited  until 
after  the  Deyos'  dance — you  should  have  waited  if 
you  wanted  to  do  that." 

"It  was  sudden,  Aunt  Josephine.  Anyway,  why 
does  it  matter  to  Mrs.  Deyo  particularly?" 

"Why,  child,"  cried  Mrs.  Harvey,  "in  her  paper 
on  'The  Foibles  of  the  Younger  Generation'  that 
she  read  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  Thursday  Club 
she  devoted  fifteen  minutes  to  bobbed  hair.  It's  her 
pet  abomination.  And  the  dance  is  for  you  and 
Marjorie ! " 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Oh,  Bernice,  what'U  your  mother  say?  She'll 
think  I  let  you  do  it." 

"I'm  sorry." 

Dinner  was  an  agony.  She  had  made  a  hasty 
attempt  with  a  curling-iron,  and  burned  her  finger 
and  much  hair.  She  could  see  that  her  aunt  was 
both  worried  and  grieved,  and  her  uncle  kept  saying, 
"Well,  I'll  be  darned !"  over  and  over  in  a  hurt  and 
faintly  hostile  tone.  And  Marjorie  sat  very  quietly, 
intrenched  behind  a  faint  smile,  a  faintly  mocking 
smile. 

Somehow  she  got  through  the  evening.  Three 
boys  called;  Marjorie  disappeared  with  one  of  them, 
and  Bernice  made  a  listless  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
entertain  the  two  others — sighed  thankfully  as  she 
climbed  the  stairs  to  her  room  at  half  past  ten. 
What  a  day ! 

When  she  had  undressed  for  the  night  the  door 
opened  and  Marjorie  came  in. 


190          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"Bernice,"  she  said,  "I'm  awfully  sorry  about 
the  Deyo  dance.  I'll  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
I'd  forgotten  all  about  it." 

"'Sail  right,"  said  Bernice  shortly.  Standing  be 
fore  the  mirror  she  passed  her  comb  slowly  through 
her  short  hair. 

"I'll  take  you  down-town  to-morrow,"  continued 
Marjorie,  "and  the  hairdresser '11  fix  it  so  you'll  look 
slick.  I  didn't  imagine  you'd  go  through  with  it. 
I'm  really  mighty  sorry." 

"Oh,  'sail  right!" 

"Still  it's  your  last  night,  so  I  suppose  it  won't 
matter  much." 

Then  Bernice  winced  as  Marjorie  tossed  her  own 
hair  over  her  shoulders  and  began  to  twist  it  slowly 
into  two  long  blond  braids  until  in  her  cream-colored 
negligee  she  looked  like  a  delicate  painting  of  some 
Saxon  princess.  Fascinated,  Bernice  watched  the 
braids  grow.  Heavy  and  luxurious  they  were,  mov 
ing  under  the  supple  fingers  like  restive  snakes — and 
to  Bernice  remained  this  relic  and  the  curling-iron 
and  a  to-morrow  full  of  eyes.  She  could  see  G. 
Reece  Stoddard,  who  liked  her,  assuming  his  Har 
vard  manner  and  telling  his  dinner  partner  that 
Bernice  shouldn't  have  been  allowed  to  go  to  the 
movies  so  much;  she  could  see  Draycott  Deyo  ex 
changing  glances  with  his  mother  and  then  being 
conscientiously  charitable  to  her.  But  then  per 
haps  by  to-morrow  Mrs.  Deyo  would  have  heard 
the  news;  would  send  round  an  icy  little  note  re 
questing  that  she  fail  to  appear — and  behind  her 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  191 

back  they  would  all  laugh  and  know  that  Marjorie 
had  made  a  fool  of  her;  that  her  chance  at  beauty 
had  been  sacrificed  to  the  jealous  whim  of  a  selfish 
girl.  She  sat  down  suddenly  before  the  mirror, 
biting  the  inside  of  her  cheek. 

"I  like  it,"  she  said  with  an  effort.  "I  think  it'll 
be  becoming." 

Marjorie  smiled. 

"It  looks  all  right.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  let 
it  worry  you ! " 

"I  won't." 

"Good  night,  Bernice." 

But  as  the  door  closed  something  snapped  within 
Bernice.  She  sprang  dynamically  to  her  feet, 
clinching  her  hands,  then  swiftly  and  noiselessly 
crossed  over  to  her  bed  and  from  underneath  it 
dragged  out  her  suitcase.  Into  it  she  tossed  toilet 
articles  and  a  change  of  clothing.  Then  she  turned 
to  her  trunk  and  quickly  dumped  in  two  drawerfuls 
of  lingerie  and  summer  dresses.  She  moved  quietly, 
but  with  deadly  efficiency,  and  in  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  her  trunk  was  locked  and  strapped  and  she 
was  fully  dressed  hi  a  becoming  new  travelling  suit 
that  Marjorie  had  helped  her  pick  out. 

Sitting  down  at  her  desk  she  wrote  a  short  note 
to  Mrs.  Harvey,  in  which  she  briefly  outlined  her 
reasons  for  going.  She  sealed  it,  addressed  it,  and 
laid  it  on  her  pillow.  She  glanced  at  her  watch. 
The  train  left  at  one,  and  she  knew  that  if  she 
walked  down  to  the  Marborough  Hotel  two  blocks 
away  she  could  easily  get  a  taxicab. 


192  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Suddenly  she  drew  in  her  breath  sharply  and  an 
expression  flashed  into  her  eyes  that  a  practised 
character  reader  might  have  connected  vaguely  with 
the  set  look  she  had  worn  in  the  barber's  chair — 
somehow  a  development  of  it.  It  was  quite  a  new 
look  for  Bernice — and  it  carried  consequences. 

She  went  stealthily  to  the  bureau,  picked  up  an 
article  that  lay  there,  and  turning  out  all  the  lights 
stood  quietly  until  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to 
the  darkness.  Softly  she  pushed  open  the  door  to 
Marjorie's  room.  She  heard  the  quiet,  even  breath 
ing  of  an  untroubled  conscience  asleep. 

She  was  by  the  bedside  now,  very  deliberate  and 
calm.  She  acted  swiftly.  Bending  over  she  found 
one  of  the  braids  of  Marjorie's  hah*,  followed  it  up 
with  her  hand  to  the  point  nearest  the  head,  and  then 
holding  it  a  little  slack  so  that  the  sleeper  would 
feel  no  pull,  she  reached  down  with  the  shears  and 
severed  it.  With  the  pigtail  in  her  hand  she  held 
her  breath.  Marjorie  had  muttered  something  in 
her  sleep.  Bernice  deftly  amputated  the  other 
braid,  paused  for  an  instant,  and  then  flitted  swiftly 
and  silently  back  to  her  own  room. 

Down-stairs  she  opened  the  big  front  door,  closed 
it  carefully  behind  her,  and  feeling  oddly  happy  and 
exuberant  stepped  off  the  porch  into  the  moonlight, 
swinging  her  heavy  grip  like  a  shopping-bag.  After 
a  minute's  brisk  walk  she  discovered  that  her  left 
hand  still  held  the  two  blond  braids.  She  laughed 
unexpectedly — had  to  shut  her  mouth  hard  to  keep 
from  emitting  an  absolute  peal.  She  was  passing 


BERNICE  BOBS  HER  HAIR  193 

Warren's  house  now,  and  on  the  impulse  she  set 
down  her  baggage,  and  swinging  the  braids  like 
pieces  of  rope  flung  them  at  the  wooden  porch, 
where  they  landed  with  a  slight  thud.  She  laughed 
again,  no  longer  restraining  herself. 

"Huh!"  she  giggled  wildly.  "Scalp  the  selfish 
thing!" 

Then  picking  up  her  suitcase  she  set  off  at  a  half- 
run  down  the  moonlit  street. 


BENEDICTION 

THE  Baltimore  Station  was  hot  and  crowded,  so 
Lois  was  forced  to  stand  by  the  telegraph  desk  for 
interminable,  sticky  seconds  while  a  clerk  with  big 
front  teeth  counted  and  recounted  a  large  lady's 
day  message,  to  determine  whether  it  contained  the 
innocuous  forty-nine  words  or  the  fatal  fifty-one. 

Lois,  waiting,  decided  she  wasn't  quite  sure  of  the 
address,  so  she  took  the  letter  out  of  her  bag  and  ran 
over  it  again. 

"Darling":  it  began — "I  understand  and  I'm 
happier  than  life  ever  meant  me  to  be.  If  I  could 
give  you  the  things  you've  always  been  in  tune  with 
— but  I  can't,  Lois;  we  can't  marry  and  we  can't 
lose  each  other  and  let  all  this  glorious  love  end  in 
nothing. 

"Until  your  letter  came,  dear,  I'd  been,  sitting 
here  in  the  half  dark  thinking  and  thinking  where  I 
could  go  and  ever  forget  you;  abroad,  perhaps,  to 
drift  through  Italy  or  Spain  and  dream  away  the 
pain  of  having  lost  you  where  the  crumbling  ruins 
of  older,  mellower  civilizations  would  mirror  only 
the  desolation  of  my  heart — and  then  your  letter 
came. 

"Sweetest,  bravest  girl,  if  you'll  wire  me  Fll  meet 
you  in  Wilmington — till  then  I'll  be  here  just  wait 
ing  and  hoping  for  every  long  dream  of  you  to  come 

tme'  "HOWARD." 

194 


BENEDICTION  195 

She  had  read  the  letter  so  many  times  that  she 
knew  it  word  by  word,  yet  it  still  startled  her.  In 
it  she  found  many  faint  reflections  of  the  man  who 
wrote  it — the  mingled  sweetness  and  sadness  in  his 
dark  eyes,  the  furtive,  restless  excitement  she  felt 
sometimes  when  he  talked  to  her,  his  dreamy  sen- 
suousness  that  lulled  her  mind  to  sleep.  Lois  was 
nineteen  and  very  romantic  and  curious  and  cou 
rageous. 

The  large  lady  and  the  clerk  having  compromised 
on  fifty  words,  Lois  took  a  blank  and  wrote  her 
telegram.  And  there  were  no  overtones  to  the 
finality  of  her  decision. 

It's  just  destiny-r-she  thought — it's  just  the  way 
things  work  out  in  this  damn  world.  If  cowardice 
is  all  that's  been  holding  me  back  there  won't  be  any 
more  holding  back.  So  we'll  just  let  things  take 
their  course,  and  never  be  sorry. 

The  clerk  scanned  her  telegram: 

"Arrived  Baltimore  today  spend  day  with  my 
brother  meet  me  Wilmington  three  P.M.  Wednesday 

Love  "Lois." 

"Fifty-four  cents,"  said  the  clerk  admiringly. 
And  never  be  sorry — thought  Lois — and  never  be 
sorry 

II 

Trees  filtering  light  onto  dappled  grass.  Trees 
like  tall,  languid  ladies  with  feather  fans  coquetting 


196          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

airily  with  the  ugly  roof  of  the  monastery.  Trees 
like  butlers,  bending  courteously  over  placid  walks 
and  paths.  Trees,  trees  over  the  hills  on  either  side 
and  scattering  out  in  dumps  and  lines  and  woods  all 
through  eastern  Maryland,  delicate  lace  on  the  hems 
of  many  yellow  fields,  dark  opaque  backgrounds  for 
flowered  bushes  or  wild  climbing  gardens. 

Some  of  the  trees  were  very  gay  and  young,  but 
the  monastery  trees  were  older  than  the  monastery 
which,  by  true  monastic  standards,  wasn't  very  old 
at  all.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  wasn't  technically 
called  a  monastery,  but  only  a  seminary;  neverthe 
less  it  shall  be  a  monastery  here  despite  its  Vic 
torian  architecture  or  its  Edward  VII  additions,  or 
even  its  Woodrow  Wilsonian,  patented,  last-a-cen- 
tury  roofing. 

Out  behind  was  the  farm  where  half  a  dozen  lay 
brothers  were  sweating  lustily  as  they  moved  with 
deadly  efficiency  around  the  vegetable-gardens. 
To  the  left,  behind  a  row  of  elms,  was  an  informal 
baseball  diamond  where  three  novices  were  being 
batted  out  by  a  fourth,  amid  great  chasings  and  puff 
ings  and  blowings.  And  in  front  as  a  great  mellow 
bell  boomed  the  half -hour  a  swarm  of  black,  human 
leaves  were  blown  over  the  checker-board  of  paths 
under  the  courteous  trees. 

Some  of  these  black  leaves  were  very  old  with 
cheeks  furrowed  like  the  first  ripples  of  a  splashed 
pool.  Then  there  was  a  scattering  of  middle-aged 
leaves  whose  forms  when  viewed  in  profile  in  their 
revealing  gowns  were  beginning  to  be  faintly  unsym- 


BENEDICTION  197 

metrical.  These  carried  thick  volumes  of  Thomas 
Aquinas  and  Henry  James  and  Cardinal  Mercier 
and  Immanuel  Kant  and  many  bulging  note-books 
filled  with  lecture  data. 

But  most  numerous  were  the  young  leaves;  blond 
boys  of  nineteen  with  very  stern,  conscientious  ex 
pressions;  men  in  the  late  twenties  with  a  keen  self- 
assurance  from  having  taught  out  in  the  world  for 
five  years — several  hundreds  of  them,  from  city  and 
town  and  country  in  Maryland  and  Pennsylvania 
and  Virginia  and  West  Virginia  and  Delaware. 

There  were  many  Americans  and  some  Irish  and 
some  tough  Irish  and  a  few  French,  and  several 
Italians  and  Poles,  and  they  walked  informally  arm 
in  arm  with  each  other  in  twos  and  threes  or  in 
long  rows,  almost  universally  distinguished  by  the 
straight  mouth  and  the  considerable  chin — for  this 
was  the  Society  of  Jesus,  founded  in  Spain  five  hun 
dred  years  before  by  a  tough-minded  soldier  who 
trained  men  to  hold  a  breach  or  a  salon,  preach  a 
sermon  or  write  a  treaty,  and  do  it  and  not  argue  .  .  . 

Lois  got  out  of  a  bus  into  the  sunshine  down  by 
the  outer  gate.  She  was  nineteen  with  yellow  hair 
and  eyes  that  people  were  tactful  enough  not  to 
call  green.  When  men  of  talent  saw  her  in  a  street 
car  they  often  furtively  produced  little  stub-pencils 
and  backs  of  envelopes  and  tried  to  sum  up  that 
profile  or  the  thing  that  the  eyebrows  did  to  her 
eyes.  Later  they  looked  at  their  results  and  usually 
tore  them  up  with  wondering  sighs. 

Though  Lois  was  very  jauntily  attired  in  an  ex- 


198          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

pensively  appropriate  travelling  affair,  she  did  not 
linger  to  pat  out  the  dust  which  covered  her  clothes, 
but  started  up  the  central  walk  with  curious  glances 
at  either  side.  Her  face  was  very  eager  and  ex 
pectant,  yet  she  hadn't  at  all  that  glorified  expres 
sion  that  girls  wear  when  they  arrive  for  a  Senior 
Prom  at  Princeton  or  New  Haven;  still,  as  there 
were  no  senior  proms  here,  perhaps  it  didn't  matter. 

She  was  wondering  what  he  would  look  like, 
whether  she'd  possibly  know  him  from  his  picture. 
In  the  picture,  which  hung  over  her  mother's  bureau 
at  home,  he  seemed  very  young  and  hollow-cheeked 
and  rather  pitiful,  with  only  a  well-developed  mouth 
and  an  ill-fitting  probationer's  gown  to  show  that 
he  had  already  made  a  momentous  decision  about 
his  life.  Of  course  he  had  been  only  nineteen  then 
and  now  he  was  thirty-six — didn't  look  like  that  at 
all;  in  recent  snap-shots  he  was  much  broader  and 
his  hair  had  grown  a  little  thin — but  the  impression 
of  her  brother  she  had  always  retained  was  that  of 
the  big  picture.  And  so  she  had  always  been  a 
little  sorry  for  him.  What  a  life  for  a  man !  Seven 
teen  years  of  preparation  and  he  wasn't  even  a 
priest  yet — wouldn't  be  for  another  year. 

Lois  had  an  idea  that  this  was  all  going  to  be 
rather  solemn  if  she  let  it  be.  But  she  was  going  to 
give  her  very  best  imitation  of  undiluted  sunshine, 
the  imitation  she  could  give  even  when  her  head 
was  splitting  or  when  her  mother  had  a  nervous 
breakdown  or  when  she  was  particularly  romantic 
and  curious  and  courageous.  This  brother  of  hers 


BENEDICTION  199 

undoubtedly  needed  cheering  up,  and  he  was  going 
to  be  cheered  up,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not. 

As  she  drew  near  the  great,  homely  front  door 
she  saw  a  man  break  suddenly  away  from  a  group 
and,  pulling  up  the  skirts  of  his  gown,  run  toward 
her.  He  was  smiling,  she  noticed,  and  he  looked 
very  big  and — and  reliable.  She  stopped  and  waited, 
knew  that  her  heart  was  beating  unusually  fast. 

"Lois!"  he  cried,  and  hi  a  second  she  was  in  his 
arms.  She  was  suddenly  trembling. 

"Lois!"  he  cried  again,  "why,  this  is  wonderful! 
I  can't  tell  you,  Lois,  how  much  I've  looked  forward 
to  this.  Why,  Lois,  you're  beautiful!" 

Lois  gasped. 

His  voice,  though  restrained,  was  vibrant  with 
energy  and  that  odd  sort  of  enveloping  personality 
she  had  thought  that  she  only  of  the  family  pos 
sessed. 

"I'm  mighty  glad,  too— Kieth." 

She  flushed,  but  not  unhappily,  at  this  first  use 
of  his  name. 

"Lois — Lois: — Lois,"  he  repeated  in  wonder. 
"Child,  we'll  go  in  here  a  minute,  because  I  want 
you  to  meet  the  rector,  and  then  we'll  walk  around. 
I  have  a  thousand  things  to  talk  to  you  about." 

His  voice  became  graver.     "  How's  mother  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  said 
something  that  she  had  not  intended  to  say  at  all, 
the  very  sort  of  thing  she  had  resolved  to  avoid. 

"Oh,  Kieth — she's — she's  getting  worse  all  the 
time,  every  way." 


200  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

He  nodded  slowly  as  if  he  understood. 

"Nervous,  well — you  can  tell  me  about  that  later. 
Now " 

She  was  in  a  small  study  with  a  large  desk,  saying 
something  to  a  little,  jovial,  white-haired  priest  who 
retained  her  hand  for  some  seconds. 

"So  this  is  Lois!" 

He  said  it  as  if  he  had  heard  of  her  for  years. 

He  entreated  her  to  sit  down. 

Two  other  priests  arrived  enthusiastically  and 
shook  hands  with  her  and  addressed  her  as  "Kieth's 
little  sister, "  which  she  found  she  didn't  mind  a  bit. 

How  assured  they  seemed;  she  had  expected  a 
certain  shyness,  reserve  at  least.  There  were  sev 
eral  jokes  unintelligible  to  her,  which  seemed  to  de 
light  every  one,  and  the  little  Father  Rector  referred 
to  the  trio  of  them  as  "dim  old  monks,"  which  she 
appreciated,  because  of  course  they  weren't  monks 
at  all.  She  had  a  lightning  impression  that  they 
were  especially  fond  of  Kieth — the  Father  Rector 
had  called  him  "Kieth"  and  one  of  the  others  had 
kept  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  all  through  the  con 
versation.  Then  she  was  shaking  hands  again  and 
promising  to  come  back  a  little  later  for  some  ice 
cream,  and  smiling  and  smiling  and  being  rather  ab 
surdly  happy  .  .  .  she  told  herself  that  it  was  be 
cause  Kieth  was  so  delighted  in  showing  her  off. 

Then  she  and  Kieth  were  strolling  along  a  path, 
arm  in  arm,  and  he  was  informing  her  what  an  ab 
solute  jewel  the  Father  Rector  was. 

"Lois,"  he  broke  off  suddenly,  "I  want  to  tell  you 


BENEDICTION  201 

before  we  go  any  farther  how  much  it  means  to  me 
to  have  you  come  up  here.  I  think  it  was — mighty 
sweet  of  you.  I  know  what  a  gay  time  youVe  been 
having." 

Lois  gasped.  She  was  not  prepared  for  this.  At 
first  when  she  had  conceived  the  plan  of  taking  the 
hot  journey  down  to  Baltimore,  staying  the  night 
with  a  friend  and  then  coming  out  to  see  her  brother, 
she  had  felt  rather  consciously  virtuous,  hoped  he 
wouldn't  be  priggish  or  resentful  about  her  not  hav 
ing  come  before — but  walking  here  with  him  under 
the  trees  seemed  such  a  little  thing,  and  surprisingly 
a  happy  thing. 

"Why,  Kieth,"  she  said  quickly,  "you  know  I 
couldn't  have  waited  a  day  longer.  I  saw  you  when 
I  was  five,  but  of  course  I  didn't  remember,  and  how 
could  I  have  gone  on  without  practically  ever  hav 
ing  seen  my  only  brother?" 

"It  was  mighty  sweet  of  you,  Lois,"  he  repeated. 

Lois  blushed — he  did  have  personality. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  yourself,"  he 
said  after  a  pause.  "Of  course  I  have  a  general 
idea  what  you  and  mother  did  in  Europe  those 
fourteen  years,  and  then  we  were  all  so  worried, 
Lois,  when  you  had  pneumonia  and  couldn't  come 
down  with  mother — let's  see,  that  was  two  years 
ago — and  then,  well,  I've  seen  your  name  in  the 
papers,  but  it's  all  been  so  unsatisfactory.  I  haven't 
known  you,  Lois." 

She  found  herself  analyzing  his  personality  as  she 
analyzed  the  personality  of  every  man  she  met. 


202  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

She  wondered  if  the  effect  of — of  intimacy  that  he 
gave  was  bred  by  his  constant  repetition  of  her 
name.  He  said  it  as  if  he  loved  the  word,  as  if  it 
had  an  inherent  meaning  to  him. 

"Then  you  were  at  school/'  he  continued. 

"Yes,  at  Farmington.  Mother  wanted  me  to  go 
to  a  convent — but  I  didn't  want  to." 

She  cast  a  side  glance  at  him  to  see  if  he  would 
resent  this. 

But  he  only  nodded  slowly. 

"Had  enough  convents  abroad,  eh?" 

"Yes — and  Kieth,  convents  are  different  there 
anyway.  Here  even  in  the  nicest  ones  there  are  so 
many  common  girls." 

He  nodded  again. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "I  suppose  there  are,  and  I 
know  how  you  feel  about  it.  It  grated  on  me  here, 
at  first,  Lois,  though  I  wouldn't  say  that  to  any  one 
but  you;  we're  rather  sensitive,  you  and  I,  to  things 
like  this." 

"You  mean  the  men  here?" 

"Yes,  some  of  them  of  course  were  fine,  the  sort 
of  men  I'd  always  been  thrown  with,  but  there  were 
others;  a  man  named  Regan,  for  instance — I  hated 
the  fellow,  and  now  he's  about  the  best  friend  I 
have.  A  wonderful  character,  Lois;  you'll  meet 
him  later.  Sort  of  man  you'd  like  to  have  with  you 
in  a  fight." 

Lois  was  thinking  that  Kieth  was  the  sort  of  man 
she'd  like  to  have  with  her  in  a  fight. 

"How  did  you — how  did  you  first  happen  to  do 


BENEDICTION  203 

it?"  she  asked,  rather  shyly,  "to  come  here,  I  mean. 
Of  course  mother  told  me  the  story  about  the  Pull 


man  car." 


"Oh,  that—"    He  looked  rather  annoyed. 

"Tell  me  that.     I'd  like  to  hear  you  tell  it." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,  except  what  you  probably 
know.  It  was  evening  and  I'd  been  riding  all  day 
and  thinking  about — about  a  hundred  things,  Lois, 
and  then  suddenly  I  had  a  sense  that  some  one  was 
sitting  across  from  me,  felt  that  he'd  been  there  for 
some  time,  and  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  was  another 
traveller.  All  at  once  he  leaned  over  toward  me 
and  I  heard  a  voice  say:  'I  want  you  to  be  a  priest, 
that's  what  I  want.'  Well,  I  jumped  up  and  cried 
out,  'Oh,  my  God,  not  that!' — made  an  idiot  of 
myself  before  about  twenty  people;  you  see  there 
wasn't  any  one  sitting  there  at  all.  A  week  after 
that  I  went  to  the  Jesuit  College  in  Philadelphia 
and  crawled  up  the  last  flight  of  stairs  to  the  rec 
tor's  office  on  my  hands  and  knees." 

There  was  another  silence  and  Lois  saw  that  her 
brother's  eyes  wore  a  far-away  look,  that  he  was 
staring  unseeingly  out  over  the  sunny  fields.  She 
was  stirred  by  the  modulations  of  his  voice  and  the 
sudden  silence  that  seemed  to  flow  about  him  when 
he  finished  speaking. 

She  noticed  now  that  his  eyes  were  of  the  same 
fibre  as  hers,  with  the  green  left  out,  and  that  his 
mouth  was  much  gentler,  really,  than  in  the  picture 
—or  was  it  that  the  face  had  grown  up  to  it  lately  ? 
He  was  getting  a  little  bald  just  on  top  of  his  head.  , 


204  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

She  wondered  if  that  was  from  wearing  a  hat  so 
much.  It  seemed  awful  for  a  man  to  grow  bald 
and  no  one  to  care  about  it. 

"  Were  you — pious  when  you  were  young,  Kieth  ?  " 
she  asked.  "You  know  what  I  mean.  Were  you 
religious?  If  you  don't  mind  these  personal  ques 
tions." 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  his  eyes  still  far  away — and 
she  felt  that  his  intense  abstraction  was  as  much  a 
part  of  his  personality  as  his  attention.  "Yes,  I 
suppose  I  was,  when  I  was — sober." 

Lois  thrilled  slightly. 

"Did  you  drink?" 

He  nodded. 

"I  was  on  the  way  to  making  a  bad  hash  of 
things."  He  smiled  and,  turning  his  gray  eyes  on 
her,  changed  the  subject. 

"Child,  tell  me  about  mother.  I  know  it's  been 
awfully  hard  for  you  there,  lately.  I  know  you've 
had  to  sacrifice  a  lot  and  put  up  with  a  great  deal, 
and  I  want  you  to  know  how  fine  of  you  I  think  it 
is.  I  feel,  Lois,  that  you're  sort  of  taking  the  place 
of  both  of  us  there." 

Lois  thought  quickly  how  little  she  had  sacrificed; 
how  lately  she  had  constantly  avoided  her  nervous, 
half -invalid  mother. 

"Youth  shouldn't  be  sacrificed  to  age,  Kieth," 
she  said  steadily. 

"I  know,"  he  sighed,  "and  you  oughtn't  to  have 
the  weight  on  your  shoulders,  child.  I  wish  I  were 
there  to  help  you." 


BENEDICTION  205 

She  saw  how  quickly  he  had  turned  her  remark 
and  instantly  she  knew  what  this  quality  was  that 
he  gave  off.  He  was  sweet.  Her  thoughts  went  off 
on  a  side-track  and  then  she  broke  the  silence  with 
an  odd  remark. 

"Sweetness  is  hard,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"What?" 

"Nothing,"  she  denied  in  confusion.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  speak  aloud.  I  was  thinking  of  something 
— of  a  conversation  with  a  man  named  Freddy 
Kebble." 

"Maury  Kebble's  brother?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  rather  surprised  to  think  of  him 
having  known  Maury  Kebble.  Still  there  was 
nothing  strange  about  it.  "Well,  he  and  I  were 
talking  about  sweetness  a  few  weeks  ago.  Oh,  I 
don't  know — I  said  that  a  man  named  Howard — 
that  a  man  I  knew  was  sweet,  and  he  didn't  agree 
with  me,  and  we  began  talking  about  what  sweet 
ness  in  a  man  was.  He  kept  telling  me  I  meant  a 
sort  of  soppy  softness,  but  I  knew  I  didn't — yet  I 
didn't  know  exactly  how  to  put  it.  I  see  now.  I 
meant  just  the  opposite.  I  suppose  real  sweetness 
is  a  sort  of  hardness — and  strength." 

Kieth  nodded. 

"I  see  what  you  mean.  I've  known  old  priests 
who  had  it." 

"I'm  talking  about  young  men,"  she  said,  rather 
defiantly. 

"Oh!" 

They  had  reached  the  now  deserted  baseball  dia- 


206  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

mond  and,  pointing  her  to  a  wooden  bench,  he 
sprawled  full  length  on  the  grass. 

"Are  these  young  men  happy  here,  Kieth?" 

"Don't  they  look  happy,  Lois? " 

"I  suppose  so,  but  those  young  ones,  those  two 
we  just  passed — have  they — are  they " 

"Are  they  signed  up?"  he  laughed.  "No,  but 
they  will  be  next  month." 

"Permanently?" 

"Yes — unless  they  break  down  mentally  or  physi 
cally.  Of  course  in  a  discipline  like  ours  a  lot  drop 
out." 

"But  those  boys.  Are  they  giving  up  fine  chances 
outside — like  you  did?" 

He  nodded. 

"Some  of  them." 

"But,  Kieth,  they  don't  know  what  they're  doing. 
They  haven't  had  any  experience  of  what  they're 
missing." 

"No,  I  suppose  not." 

"It  doesn't  seem  fair.  Life  has  just  sort  of  scared 
them  at  first.  Do  they  all  come  in  so  young  ?" 

"No,  some  of  them  have  knocked  around,  led 
pretty  wild  lives — Regan,  for  instance." 

"I  should  think  that  sort  would  be  better,"  she 
said  meditatively,  "men  that  had  seen  life." 

"No,"  said  Kieth  earnestly,  "I'm  not  sure  that 
knocking  about  gives  a  man  the  sort  of  experience 
he  can  communicate  to  others.  Some  of  the  broad 
est  men  I've  known  have  been  absolutely  rigid  about 
themselves.  And  reformed  Aibertines\  are  a  no- 


BENEDICTION  207 

toriously  intolerant  class.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Lois?" 

She  nodded,  still  meditative,  and  he  continued: 

"It  seems  to  me  that  when  one  weak  person  goes 
to  another,  it  isn't  help  they  want;  it's  a  sort  of 
companionship  in  guilt,  Lois.  After  you  were  born, 
when  mother  began  to  get  nervous  she  used  to  go 
and  weep  with  a  certain  Mrs.  Comstock.  Lord,  it 
used  to  make  me  shiver.  She  said  it  comforted  her, 
poor  old  mother.  No,  I  don't  think  that  to  help 
others  you've  got  to  show  yourself  at  all.  Real  help 
comes  from  a  stronger  person  whom  you  respect. 
And  their  sympathy  is  all  the  bigger  because  it's 
impersonal." 

"But  people  want  human  sympathy,"  objected 
Lois.  "They  want  to  feel  the  other  person's  been 
tempted." 

"Lois,  in  their  hearts  they  want  to  feel  that  the 
other  person's  been  weak.  That's  what  they  mean 
by  human, 

"Here  in  this  old  monkery,  Lois,"  he  continued 
with  a  smile,  "they  try  to  get  all  that  self-pity  and 
pride  in  our  own  wills  out  of  us  right  at  the  first. 
They  put  us  to  scrubbing  floors — and  other  things. 
It's  like  that  idea  of  saving  your  life  by  losing  it. 
You  see  we  sort  of  feel  that  the  less  human  a  man 
is,  in  your  sense  of  human,  the  better  servant  he 
can  be  to  humanity.  We  carry  it  out  to  the  end, 
too.  When  one  of  us  dies  his  family  can't  even  have 
him  then.  He's  buried  here  under  a  plain  wooden 
cross  with  a  thousand  others." 


208  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

His  tone  changed  suddenly  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  great  brightness  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"But  way  back  in  a  man's  heart  there  are  some 
things  he  can't  get  rid  of — and  one  of  them  is  that 
I'm  awfully  in  love  with  my  little  sister." 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  knelt  beside  him  in 
the  grass  and,  leaning  over,  kissed  his  forehead. 

"You're  hard,  Kieth,"  she  said,  "and  I  love  you 
for  it — and  you're  sweet." 

Ill 

Back  in  the  reception-room  Lois  met  a  half-dozen 
more  of  Kieth's  particular  friends;  there  was  a 
young  man  named  Jarvis,  rather  pale  and  delicate- 
looking,  who,  she  knew,  must  be  a  grandson  of  old 
Mrs.  Jarvis  at  home,  and  she  mentally  compared 
this  ascetic  with  a  brace  of  his  riotous  uncles. 

And  there  was  Regan  with  a  scarred  face  and 
piercing  intent  eyes  that  followed  her  about  the  room 
and  often  rested  on  Kieth  with  something  very  like 
worship.  She  knew  then  what  Kieth  had  meant 
about  "a  good  man  to  have  with  you  in  a  fight." 

He's  the  missionary  type — she  thought  vaguely 
— China  or  something. 

"  I  want  Kieth's  sister  to  show  us  what  the  shimmy 
is,"  demanded  one  young  man  with  a  broad  grin. 

Lois  laughed. 

"I'm  afraid  the  Father  Rector  would  send  me 
shimmying  out  the  gate.  Besides,  I'm  not  an  ex 
pert." 


BENEDICTION  209 

"I'm  sure  it  wouldn't  be  best  for  Jimmy's  soul 
anyway,"  said  Kieth  solemnly.  "He's  inclined  to 
brood  about  things  like  shimmys.  They  were  just 
starting  to  do  the — maxixe,  wasn't  it,  Jimmy? — 
when  he  became  a  monk,  and  it  haunted  him  his 
whole  first  year.  You'd  see  him  when  he  was  peel 
ing  potatoes,  putting  his  arm  around  the  bucket  and 
making  irreligious  motions  with  his  feet." 

There  was  a  general  laugh  in  which  Lois  joined. 

"  An  old  lady  who  comes  here  to  Mass  sent  Kieth 
this  ice-cream,"  whispered  Jarvis  under  cover  of 
the  laugh,  "because  she'd  heard  you  were  coming. 
It's  pretty  good,  isn't  it?" 

There  were  tears  trembling  in  Lois'  eyes. 


IV 

Then  half  an  hour  later  over  in  the  chapel  things 
suddenly  went  all  wrong.  It  was  several  years  since 
Lois  had  been  at  Benediction  and  at  first  she  was 
thrilled  by  the  gleaming  monstrance  with  its  cen 
tral  spot  of  white,  the  air  rich  and  heavy  with  in 
cense,  and  the  sun  shining  through  the  stained-glass 
window  of  St.  Francis  Xavier  overhead  and  falling 
in  warm  red  tracery  on  the  cassock  of  the  man  in 
front  of  her,  but  at  the  first  notes  of  the  "O  Salutaris 
Hostia"  a  heavy  weight  seemed  to  descend  upon  her 
soul.  Kieth  was  on  her  right  and  young  Jarvis 
on  her  left,  and  she  stole  uneasy  glances  at  both  of 
them. 


210  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

What's  the  matter  with  me?  she  thought  impa 
tiently. 

She  looked  again.  Was  there  a  certain  coldness 
in  both  their  profiles,  that  she  had  not  noticed  be 
fore — SL  pallor  about  the  mouth  and  a  curious  set 
expression  in  their  eyes?  She  shivered  slightly: 
they  were  like  dead  men. 

She  felt  her  soul  recede  suddenly  from  Kieth's. 
This  was  her  brother — this,  this  unnatural  person. 
She  caught  herself  in  the  act  of  a  little  laugh. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me?" 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  eyes  and  the  weight 
increased.  The  incense  sickened  her  and  a  stray, 
ragged  note  from  one  of  the  tenors  in  the  choir  grated 
on  her  ear  like  the  shriek  of  a  slate-pencil.  She 
fidgeted,  and  raising  her  hand  to  her  hair  touched 
her  forehead,  found  moisture  on  it. 

"It's  hot  in  here,  hot  as  the  deuce." 

Again  she  repressed  a  faint  laugh,  and  then  in  an 
instant  the  weight  upon  her  heart  suddenly  diffused 
into  cold  fear.  ...  It  was  that  candle  on  the  altar. 
It  was  all  wrong — wrong.  Why  didn't  somebody 
see  it?  There  was  something  in  it.  There  was 
something  coming  out  of  it,  taking  form  and  shape 
above  it. 

She  tried  to  fight  down  her  rising  panic,  told  her 
self  it  was  the  wick.  If  the  wick  wasn't  straight, 
candles  did  something — but  they  didn't  do  this! 
With  incalculable  rapidity  a  force  was  gathering 
within  her,  a  tremendous,  assimilative  force,  draw 
ing  from  every  sense,  every  corner  of  her  brain,  and 


BENEDICTION  211 

as  it  surged  up  inside  her  she  felt  an  enormous,  terri 
fied  repulsion.  She  drew  her  arms  in  close  to  her 
side,  away  from  Kieth  and  Jarvis. 

Something  in  that  candle  .  .  .  she  was  leaning 
forward — in  another  moment  she  felt  she  would  go 
forward  toward  it — didn't  any  one  see  it  ?  ...  any 
one? 

"Ugh!" 

She  felt  a  space  beside  her  and  something  told  her 
that  Jarvis  had  gasped  and  sat  down  very  suddenly 
.  .  .  then  she  was  kneeling  and  as  the  flaming  mon 
strance  slowly  left  the  altar  in  the  hands  of  the 
priest,  she  heard  a  great  rushing  noise  in  her  ears — 
the  crash  of  the  bells  was  like  hammer-blows  .  .  . 
and  then  in  a  moment  that  seemed  eternal  a  great 
torrent  rolled  over  her  heart — there  was  a  shouting 
there  and  a  lashing  as  of  waves  .  .  . 

.  .  .  She  was  calling,  felt  herself  calling  for  Kieth, 
her  lips  mouthing  the  words  that  would  not  come: 

" Kieth!    Oh,  my  God!    Kieth!" 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  of  a  new  presence, 
something  external,  in  front  of  her,  consummated 
and  expressed  in  warm  red  tracery.  Then  she  knew. 
It  was  the  window  of  St.  Francis  Xavier.  Her  mind 
gripped  at  it,  clung  to  it  finally,  and  she  felt  herself 
calling  again  endlessly,  impotently — Kieth — Kieth! 

Then  out  of  a  great  stillness  came  a  voice: 

" Blessed  be  God." 

With  a  gradual  rumble  sounded  the  response  roll 
ing  heavily  through  the  chapel: 

"Blessed  be  God." 


212  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

The  words  sang  instantly  in  her  heart;  the  in 
cense  lay  mystically  and  sweetly  peaceful  upon  the 
air,  and  the  candle  on  the  altar  went  out. 

"Blessed  be  His  Holy  Name." 

"Blessed  be  His  Holy  Name." 

Everything  blurred  into  a  swinging  mist.  With 
a  sound  half-gasp,  half-cry  she  rocked  on  her  feet 
and  reeled  backward  into  Kieth's  suddenly  out 
stretched  arms. 

V 

"Lie  still,  child." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again.  She  was  on  the  grass 
outside,  pillowed  on  Kieth's  arm,  and  Regan  was 
dabbing  her  head  with  a  cold  towel. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  I  know,  but  just  lie  still  a  minute  longer.  It  was 
too  hot  in  there.  Jarvis  felt  it,  too." 

She  laughed  as  Regan  again  touched  her  gingerly 
with  the  towel. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  repeated. 

But  though  a  warm  peace  was  filling  her  mind 
and  heart  she  felt  oddly  broken  and  chastened,  as  if 
some  one  had  held  her  stripped  soul  up  and  laughed. 

VI 

Half  an  hour  later  she  walked  leaning  on  Kieth'i 
arm  down  the  long  central  path  toward  the  gate. 

"It's  been  such  a  short  afternoon,"  he  sighed, 
"and  I'm  so  sorry  you  were  sick,  Lois." 


BENEDICTION  213 

"Kieth,  I'm  feeling  fine  now,  really;  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  worry." 

"Poor  old  child.  I  didn't  realize  that  Benedic 
tion^  be  a  long  service  for  you  after  your  hot  trip 
out  here  and  all." 

She  laughed  cheerfully. 

"I  guess  the  truth  is  I'm  not  much  used  to  Bene 
diction.  Mass  is  the  limit  of  my  religious  exertions." 

She  paused  and  then  continued  quickly: 

"I  don't  want  to  shock  you,  Kieth,  but  I  can't 
tell  you  how — how  inconvenient  being  a  Catholic  is. 
It  really  doesn't  seem  to  apply  any  more.  As  far 
as  morals  go,  some  of  the  wildest  boys  I  know  are 
Catholics.  And  the  brightest  boys — I  mean  the 
ones  who  think  and  read  a  lot,  don't  seem  to  believe 
in  much  of  anything  any  more." 

"Tell  me  about  it.  The  bus  won't  be  here  for 
another  half-hour." 

They  sat  down  on  a  bench  by  the  path. 

"For  instance,  Gerald  Carter,  he's  published  a 
novel.  He  absolutely  roars  when  people  mention 
immortality.  And  then  Howa — well,  another  man 
I've  known  well,  lately,  who  was  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
at  Harvard,  says  that  no  intelligent  person  can  be 
lieve  in  Supernatural  Christianity.  He  says  Christ 
was  a  great  socialist,  though.  Am  I  shocking  you  ?  " 

She  broke  off  suddenly. 

Kieth  smiled. 

"You  can't  shock  a  monk.  He's  a  professional 
shock-absorber. ' ' 

"Well,"   she   continued,    "that's   about   all.     It 


214  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

seems  so — so  narrow.  Church  schools,  for  instance. 
There's  more  freedom  about  things  that  Catholic 
people  can't  see — like  birth  control." 

Kieth  winced,  almost  imperceptibly,  but  Lois 
saw  it. 

"Oh,"  she  said  quickly,  "everybody  talks  about 
everything  now." 

"It's  probably  better  that  way." 

"Oh,  yes,  much  better.  Well,  that's  all,  Kieth. 
I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  why  I'm  a  little — luke 
warm,  at  present." 

"I'm  not  shocked,  Lois.  I  understand  better 
than  you  think.  We  all  go  through  those  times. 
But  I  know  it'll  come  out  all  right,  child.  There's 
that  gift  of  faith  that  we  have,  you  and  I,  that'll 
carry  us  past  the  bad  spots." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke  and  they  started  again  down 
the  path. 

"I  want  you  to  pray  for  me  sometimes,  Lois.  I 
think  your  prayers  would  be  about  what  I  need. 
Because  we've  come  very  close  in  these  few  hours, 
I  think." 

Her  eyes  were  suddenly  shining. 

"Oh,  we  have,  we  have!"  she  cried.  "I  feel 
closer  to  you  now  than  to  any  one  in  the  world." 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  indicated  the  side  of 
the  path. 

"We  might — just  a  minute " 

It  was  a  pieta,  a  life-size  statue  of  the  Blessed  Vir 
gin  set  within  a  semicircle  of  rocks. 

Feeling  a  little  self-conscious  she  dropped  on  her 


BENEDICTION  215 

knees  beside  him  and  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt 
at  prayer. 

She  was  only  half  through  when  he  rose.  He 
took  her  arm  again. 

"I  wanted  to  thank  Her  for  letting  us  have  this 
day  together,"  he  said  simply. 

Lois  felt  a  sudden  lump  in  her  throat  and  she 
wanted  to  say  something  that  would  tell  him  how 
much  it  had  meant  to  her,  too.  But  she  found  no 
words. 

"I'll  always  remember  this,"  he  continued,  his 
voice  trembling  a  little — "this  summer  day  with 
you.  It's  been  just  what  I  expected.  You're  just 
what  J  expected,  Lois." 

"I'm  awfully  glad,  Kieth." 

"You  see,  when  you  were  little  they  kept  sending 
me  snap-shots  of  you,  first  as  a  baby  and  then  as  a 
child  in  socks  playing  on  the  beach  with  a  pail  and 
shovel,  and  then  suddenly  as  a  wistful  little  girl 
with  wondering,  pure  eyes — and  I  used  to  build 
dreams  about  you.  A  man  has  to  have  something 
living  to  cling  to.  I  think^Lois,  it  was  your  little 
white  soul  I  tried  to  keep  near  me — even  when  life 
was  at  its  loudest  and  every  intellectual  idea  of  God 
seemed  the  sheerest  mockery,  and  desire  and  love 
and  a  million  things  came  up  to  me  and  said:  'Look 
here  at  me!  See,  I'm  Life.  You're  turning  your 
back  on  it!'  All  the  way  through  that  shadow, 
Lois,  I  could  always  see  your  baby  soul  flitting  on 
ahead  of  me,  very  frail  #nd  clear  and  wonderful." 

Lois  was  crying  softly.    They  had  reached  the 


2i6  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

gate  and  she  rested  her  elbow  on  it  and  dabbed  furi 
ously  at  her  eyes. 

"And  then  later,  child,  when  you  were  sick  I 
knelt  all  one  night  and  asked  God  to  spare  you  for 
me — for  I  knew  then  that  I  wanted  more;  He  had 
taught  me  to  want  more.  I  wanted  to  know  you 
moved  and  breathed  in  the  same  world  with  me.  I 
saw  you  growing  up,  that  white  innocence  of  yours 
changing  to  a  flame  and  burning  to  give  light  to 
other  weaker  souls.  And  then  I  wanted  some  day 
to  take  your  children  on  my  knee  and  hear  them  call 
the  crabbed  old  monk  Uncle  Kieth." 
He  seemed  to  be  laughing  now  as  he  talked. 
"Oh,  Lois,  Lois,  I  was  asking  God  for  more  then. 
I  wanted  the  letters  you'd  write  me  and  the  place 
I'd  have  at  your  table.  I  wanted  an  awful  lot,  Lois, 
dear." 

"YouVe  got  me,  Kieth,"  she  sobbed,  "you  know 
it,  say  you  know  it.  Oh,  I'm  acting  like  a  baby 
but  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  this  way,  and  I — oh, 
Kieth— Kieth- 

He  took  her  hand  and  patted  it  softly. 
"Here's  the  bus.     You'll  come  again,  won't  you ? " 
She  put  her  hands  on  his  cheeks,  and  drawing  his 
head  down,  pressed  her  tear- wet  face  against  his. 

"Oh,  Kieth,  brother,  some  day  I'll  tell  you  some 
thing- 
He  helped  her  in,  saw  her  take  down  her  hand 
kerchief  and  smile  bravely  at  him,  as  the  driver 
flicked  his  whip  and  the  bus  rolled  off.  Then  a  thick 
cloud  of  dust  rose  around  it  and  she  was  gone. 


BENEDICTION  217 

For  a  few  minutes  he  stood  there  on  the  road, 
his  hand  on  the  gate-post,  his  lips  half  parted  in  a 
smile. 

"Lois,"  he  said  aloud  in  a  sort  of  wonder,  "Lois, 
Lois." 

Later,  some  probationers  passing  noticed  him 
kneeling  before  the  pieta,  and  coming  back  after  a 
time  found  him  still  there.  And  he  was  there  until 
twilight  came  down  and  the  courteous  trees  grew 
garrulous  overhead  and  the  crickets  took  up  their 
burden  of  song  in  the  dusky  grass. 

vn 

The  first  clerk  in  the  telegraph  booth  in  the  Balti 
more  Station  whistled  through  his  buck  teeth  at  the 
second  clerk: 

"S'matter?" 

"See  that  girl — no,  the  pretty  one  with  the  big 
black  dots  on  her  veil.  Too  late — she's  gone.  You 
missed  somep'n." 

"What  about  her?" 

"Nothing.  'Cept  she's  damn  good-looking.  Came 
in  here  yesterday  and  sent  a  wire  to  some  guy  to 
meet  her  somewhere.  Then  a  minute  ago  she  came 
in  with  a  telegram  all  written  out  and  was  standin' 
there  goin'  to  give  it  to  me  when  she  changed  her 
mind  or  somep'n  and  all  of  a  sudden  tore  it  up." 

"Hm." 

The  first  clerk  came  around  the  counter  and  pick 
ing  up  the  two  pieces  of  paper  from  the  floor  put 


2i8  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

them  together  idly.  The  second  clerk  read  them 
over  his  shoulder  and  subconsciously  counted  the 
words  as  he  read.  There  were  just  thirteen. 

"This  is  hi  the  way  of  a  permanent  goodbye.    I 
should  suggest  Italy.  "Lois  " 

"Tore  it  up,  eh?"  said  the  second  clerk. 


DALYRIMPLE  GOES  WRONG 

IN  the  millennium  an  educational  genius  will  write  a 
book  to  be  given  to  every  young  man  on  the  date  of 
his  disillusion.  This  work  will  have  the  flavor  of 
Montaigne's  essays  and  Samuel  Butler's  note-books 
— and  a  little  of  Tolstoi  and  Marcus  Aurelius.  It 
will  be  neither  cheerful  nor  pleasant  but  will  con 
tain  numerous  passages  of  striking  humor.  Since 
first-class  minds  never  believe  anything  very  strongly 
until  they've  experienced  it,  its  value  will  be  purely 
relative  ...  all  people  over  thirty  will  refer  to  it 
as  "depressing." 

This  prelude  belongs  to  the  story  of  a  young  man 
who  lived,  as  you  and  I  do,  before  the  book. 

II 

The  generation  which  numbered  Bryan  Daly- 
rimple  drifted  out  of  adolescence  to  a  mighty  fan 
fare  of  trumpets.  Bryan  played  the  star  in  an  affair 
which  included  a  Lewis  gun  and  a  nine-day  romp 
behind  the  retreating  German  lines,  so  luck  tri 
umphant  or  sentiment  rampant  awarded  him  a  row 
of  medals  and  on  his  arrival  in  the  States  he  was  told 
that  he  was  second  in  importance  only  to  General 
Pershing  and  Sergeant  York.  This  was  a  lot  of  fun. 
The  governor  of  his  State,  a  stray  congressman,  and 

219 


220  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

a  citizens'  committee  gave  him  enormous  smiles  and 
"By  God,  Sirs/7  on  the  dock  at  Hoboken;  there 
were  newspaper  reporters  and  photographers  who 
said  "would  you  mind"  and  "if  you  could  just"; 
and  back  in  his  home  town  there  were  old  ladies,  the 
rims  of  whose  eyes  grew  red  as  they  talked  to  him, 
and  girls  who  hadn't  remembered  him  so  well  since 
his  father's  business  went  blah!  in  nineteen- twelve. 

But  when  the  shouting  died  he  realized  that  for  a 
month  he  had  been  the  house  guest  of  the  mayor, 
that  he  had  only  fourteen  dollars  in  the  world,  and 
that  "the  name  that  will  live  forever  in  the  annals 
and  legends  of  this  State"  was  already  living  there 
very  quietly  and  obscurely. 

One  morning  he  lay  late  in  bed  and  just  outside 
his  door  he  heard  the  up-stairs  maid  talking  to  the 
cook.  The  up-stairs  maid  said  that  Mrs.  Hawkins, 
the  mayor's  wife,  had  been  trying  for  a  week  to 
hint  Dalyrimple  out  of  the  house.  He  left  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  intolerable  confusion,  asking  that  his 
trunk  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Beebe's  boarding-house. 

Dalyrimple.  was  twenty- three  and  he  had  never 
worked.  His  father  had  given  him  two  years  at  the 
State  University  and  passed  away  about  the  time 
of  his  son's  nine-day  romp,  leaving  behind  him  some 
mid- Victorian  furniture  and  a  thin  packet  of  folded 
papers  that  turned  out  to  be  grocery  bills.  Young 
Dalyrimple  had  very  keen  gray  eyes,  a  mind  that 
delighted  the  army  psychological  examiners,  a  trick 
of  having  read  it — whatever  it  was — some  time  be 
fore,  and  a  cool  hand  in  a  hot  situation.  But  these 


DALYRIMPLE   GOES  WRONG  221 

things  did  not  save  him  a  final,  unresigned  sigh  when 
he  realized  that  he  had  to  go  to  work — right  away. 

It  was  early  afternoon  when  he  walked  into  the 
office  of  Theron  G.  Macy,  who  owned  the  largest 
wholesale  grocery  house  in  town.  Plump,  pros 
perous,  wearing  a  pleasant  but  quite  unhumorous 
smile,  Theron  G.  Macy  greeted  him  warmly. 

i '  Well — how  do,  Bryan  ?    What's  on  your  mind  ? ' ' 

To  Dalyrimple,  straining  with  his  admission,  his 
own  words,  when  they  came,  sounded  like  an  Arab 
beggar's  whine  for  alms. 

"Why — this  question  of  a  job."  ("This  question 
of  a  job"  seemed  somehow  more  clothed  than  just 
"a  job.") 

"A  job?"  An  almost  imperceptible  breeze  blew 
across  Mr.  Macy's  expression. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Macy,"  continued  Dalyrimple, 
"I  feel  I'm  wasting  time.  I  want  to  get  started  at 
something.  I  had  several  chances  about  a  month 
ago  but  they  all  seem  to  have — gone " 

"Let's  see,"  interrupted  Mr.  Macy.  "What  were 
they?" 

"Well,  just  at  the  first  the  governor  said  some 
thing  about  a  vacancy  on  his  staff.  I  was  sort  of 
counting  on  that  for  a  while,  but  I  hear  he's  given 
it  to  Allen  Gregg,  you  know,  son  of  G.  P.  Gregg. 
He  sort  of  forgot  what  he  said  to  me — just  talking, 
I  guess." 

"You  ought  to  push  those  things." 

"Then  there  was  that  engineering  expedition, 
but  they  decided  they'd  have  to  have  a  man  who 


222  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

knew  hydraulics,  so  they  couldn't  use  me  unless  I 
paid  my  own  way." 

"You  had  just  a  year  at  the  university?" 

"Two.  But  I  didn't  take  any  science  or  mathe 
matics.  Well,  the  day  the  battalion  paraded,  Mr. 
Peter  Jordan  said  something  about  a  vacancy  in  his 
store.  I  went  around  there  to-day  and  I  found  he 
meant  a  sort  of  floor-walker — and  then  you  said 
something  one  day" — he  paused  and  waited  for  the 
older  man  to  take  him  up,  but  noting  only  a  minute 
wince  continued — "about  a  position,  so  I  thought 
I'd  come  and  see  you." 

"There  was  a  position,"  confessed  Mr.  Macy 
reluctantly,  "but  since  then  we've  filled  it."  He 
cleared  his  throat  again,  "You've  waited  quite  a 
while." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  did.  Everybody  told  me  there 
was  no  hurry — and  I'd  had  these  various  offers." 

Mr.  Macy  delivered  a  paragraph  on  present-day 
opportunities  which  Dalyrimple's  mind  completely 
skipped. 

"Have  you  had  any  business  experience?" 

"I  worked  on  a  ranch  two  summers  as  a  rider." 

"Oh,  well,"  Mr.  Macy  disparaged  this  neatly, 
and  then  continued:  "What  do  you  think  you're 
worth?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  Bryan,  I  tell  you,  I'm  willing  to  strain  a 
point  and  give  you  a  chance." 

Dalyrimple  nodded. 

"Your  salary  won't  be  much.     You'll  start  by 


DALYRIMPLE   GOES   WRONG  223 

learning  the  stock.  Then  you'll  come  in  the  office 
for  a  while.  Then  you'll  go  on  the  road.  When 
could  you  begin?" 

"How  about  to-morrow?" 

"All  right.  Report  to  Mr.  Hanson  in  the  stock 
room.  He'll  start  you  off." 

He  continued  to  regard  Dalyrimple  steadily  until 
the  latter,  realizing  that  the  interview  was  over, 
rose  awkwardly. 

"Well,  Mr.  Macy,  I'm  certainly  much  obliged." 

"That's  all  right.     Glad  to  help  you,  Bryan." 

After  an  irresolute  moment,  Dalyrimple  found 
himself  in  the  hall.  His  forehead  was  covered  with 
perspiration,  and  the  room  had  not  been  hot. 

"Why  the  devil  did  I  thank  the  son  of  a  gun?" 
he  muttered. 

ni 

Next  morning  Mr.  Hanson  informed  him  coldly 
of  the  necessity  of  punching  the  time-clock  at  seven 
every  morning,  and  delivered  him  for  instruction 
into  the  hands  of  a  fellow  worker,  one  Charley 
Moore. 

Charley  was  twenty-six,  with  that  faint  musk  of 
weakness  hanging  about  him  that  is  often  mistaken 
for  the  scent  of  evil.  It  took  no  psychological  ex 
aminer  to  decide  that  he  had  drifted  into  indulgence  • 
and  laziness  as  casually  as  he  had  drifted  into  life, 
and  was  to  drift  out.  He  was  pale  and  his  clothes 
stank  of  smoke;  he  enjoyed  burlesque  shows,  bil 
liards,  and  Robert  Service,  and  was  always  looking 


224  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

back  upon  his  last  intrigue  or  forward  to  his  next 
one.  In  his  youth  his  taste  had  run  to  loud  ties, 
but  now  it  seemed  to  have  faded,  like  his  vitality, 
and  was  expressed  in  pale-lilac  four-in-hands  and 
indeterminate  gray  collars.  Charley  was  listlessly 
struggling  that  losing  struggle  against  mental,  moral, 
and  physical  anaemia  that  takes  place  ceaselessly  on 
the  lower  fringe  of  the  middle  classes. 

The  first  morning  he  stretched  himself  on  a  row 
of  cereal  cartons  and  carefully  went  over  the  limi 
tations  of  the  Theron  G.  Macy  Company. 

"It's  a  piker  organization.  My  Gosh!  Lookit 
what  they  give  me.  I'm  quittin'  in  a  coupla  months. 
Hell !  Me  stay  with  this  bunch ! " 

The  Charley  Moores  are  always  going  to  change 
jobs  next  month.  They  do,  once  or  twice  in  their 
careers,  after  which  they  sit  around  comparing  their 
last  job  with  the  present  one,  to  the  infinite  dis 
paragement  of  the  latter. 

"What  do  you  get?"  asked  Dalyrimple  curiouslyo 

"Me?    I  get  sixty."    This  rather  defiantly. 

"Did  you  start  at  sixty?" 

"Me?  No,  I  started  at  thirty-five.  He  told  me 
he'd  put  me  on  the  road  after  I  learned  the  stock. 
That's  what  he  tells  'em  all." 

"How  long've  you  been  here?"  asked  Dalyrimple 
with  a  sinking  sensation. 

"Me?  Four  years.  My  last  year,  too,  you  bet 
your  boots." 

Dalyrimple  rather  resented  the  presence  of  the 
store  detective  as  he  resented  the  time-clock,  and 


DALYRIMPLE   GOES  WRONG  225 

he  came  into  contact  with  him  almost  immediately 
through  the  rule  against  smoking.  This  rule  was  a 
thorn  in  his  side.  He  was  accustomed  to  his  three 
or  four  cigarettes  in  a  morning,  and  after  three  days 
without  it  he  followed  Charley  Moore  by  a  cir 
cuitous  route  up  a  flight  of  back  stairs  to  a  little 
balcony  where  they  indulged  in  peace.  But  this  was 
not  for  long.  One  day  in  his  second  week  the  de 
tective  met  him  in  a  nook  of  the  stairs,  on  his 
descent,  and  told  him  sternly  that  next  time  he'd 
be  reported  to  Mr.  Macy.  Dalyrimple  felt  like  an 
errant,  schoolboy. 

"llnpleasant  facts  came  to  his  knowledge.  There 
were  "cave-dwellers"  in  the  basement  who  had 
worked  there  for  ten  or  fifteen  years  at  sixty  dollars 
a  month,  rolling  barrels  and  carrying  boxes  through 
damp,  cement- walled  corridors,  lost  in  that  echoing 
half-darkness  between  seven  and  five-thirty  and, 
like  himself,  compelled  several  times  a  month  to 
work  until  nine  at  night. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  he  stood  in  line  and  re 
ceived  forty  dollars.  He  pawned  a  cigarette-case 
and  a  pair  of  field-glasses  and  managed  to  live — to 
eat,  sleep,  and  smoke.  It  was,  however,  a  narrow 
scrape;  as  the  ways  and  means  of  economy  were  a 
closed  book  to  him  and  the  second  month  brought 
no  increase,  he  voiced  his  alarm. 

"If  youVe  got  a  drag  with  old  Macy,  maybe  he'll 
raise  you,"  was  Charley's  disheartening  reply. 
"But  he  didn't  raise  me  till  I'd  been  here  nearly 
two  years." 


226  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"I've  got  to  live,"  said  Dalyrimple  simply.  "I 
could  get  more  pay  as  a  laborer  on  the  railroad  but, 
Golly,  I  want  to  feel  I'm  where  there's  a  chance  to 
get  ahead." 

Charles  shook  his  head  sceptically  and  Mr. 
Macy's  answer  next  day  was  equally  unsatisfactory. 

Dalyrimple  had  gone  to  the  office  just  before 
closing  time. 

"Mr.  Macy,  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you." 

"Why — yes."  The  unhumorous  smile  appeared. 
The  voice  was  faintly  resentful. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  in  regard  to  more  salary." 

Mr.  Macy  nodded. 

"Well,"  he  said  doubtfully,  "I  don't  know  ex 
actly  what  you're  doing.  I'll  speak  to  Mr.  Hanson." 

He  knew  exactly  what  Dalyrimple  was  doing,  and 
Dalyrimple  knew  he  knew. 

"I'm  in  the  stock-room — and,  sir,  while  I'm  here 
I'd  like  to  ask  you  how  much  longer  I'll  have  to 
stay  there." 

"Why — I'm  not  sure  exactly.  Of  course  it  takes 
some  time  to  learn  the  stock." 

"You  told  me  two  months  when  I  started." 

"Yes.    Well,  I'll  speak  to  Mr.  Hanson." 

Dalyrimple  paused  irresolute. 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

Two  days  later  he  again  appeared  in  the  office 
with  the  result  of  a  count  that  had  been  asked  for 
by  Mr.  Hesse,  the  bookkeeper.  Mr.  Hesse  was  en 
gaged  and  Dalyrimple,  waiting,  began  idly  finger 
ing  a  ledger  on  the  stenographer's  desk. 


DALYRIMPLE   GOES  WRONG  227 

Half  unconsciously  he  turned  a  page — he  caught 
sight  of  his  name — it  was  a  salary  list: 

Dalyrimple 
Demming 
Donahoe 
Everett 

His  eyes  stopped 

Everett $60 

So  Tom  Everett,  Macy's  weak-chinned  nephew, 
had  started  at  sixty — and  in  three  weeks  he  had 
been  out  of  the  packing-room  and  into  the  office. 

So  that  was  it !  He  was  to  sit  and  see  man  after 
man  pushed  over  him:  sons,  cousins,  sons  of  friends, 
irrespective  of  their  capabilities,  while  he  was  cast 
for  a  pawn,  with  " going  on  the  road"  dangled  be 
fore  his  eyes — put  off  with  the  stock  remark:  "I'll 
see;  I'll  look  into  it."  At  forty,  perhaps,  he  would 
be  a  bookkeeper  like  old  Hesse,  tired,  listless  Hesse 
with  dull  routine  for  his  stint  and  a  dull  back 
ground  of  boarding-house  conversation. 

This  was  a  moment  when  a  genii  should  have 
pressed  into  his  hand  the  book  for  disillusioned 
young  men.  But  the  book  has  not  been  written. 

A  great  protest  swelling  into  revolt  surged  up  in 
him.  Ideas  half  forgotten,  chaoticly  perceived  and 
assimilated,  filled  his  mind.  Get  on — that  was  the 
rule  of  life — and  that  was  all.  How  he  did  it,  didn't 
matter — but  to  be  Hesse  or  Charley  Moore. 

"I  won't!"  he  cried  aloud. 


228  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

The  bookkeeper  and  the  stenographers  looked  up 
in  surprise. 

"What?" 

For  a  second  Dalyrimple  stared — then  walked 
up  to  the  desk. 

"Here's  that  data,"  he  said  brusquely.  "I  can't 
wait  any  longer." 

Mr.  Hesse's  face  expressed  surprise. 

It  didn't  matter  what  he  did — just  so  he  got  out 
of  this  rut.  In  a  dream  he  stepped  from  the  ele 
vator  into  the  stock-room,  and  walking  to  an  un 
used  aisle,  sat  down  on  a  box,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands. 

His  brain  was  whirring  with  the  frightful  jar  of 
discovering  a  platitude  for  himself. 

"I've  got  to  get  out  of  this,"  he  said  aloud  and 
then  repeated,  "I've  got  to  get  out" — and  he  didn't 
mean  only  out  of  Macy's  wholesale  house. 

When  he  left  at  five-thirty  it  was  pouring  rain, 
but  he  struck  off  in  the  opposite  direction  from  his 
boarding-house,  feeling,  in  the  first  cool  moisture 
that  oozed  soggily  through  his  old  suit,  an  odd  exul 
tation  and  freshness.  He  wanted  a  world  that  was 
like  walking  through  rain,  even  though  he  could  not 
see  far  ahead  of  him,  but  fate  had  put  him  in  the 
world  of  Mr.  Macy's  fetid  storerooms  and  corri 
dors.  At  first  merely  the  overwhelming  need  of 
change  took  him,  then  half -plans  began  to  formulate 
in  his  imagination. 

"I'll  go  East — to  a  big  city — meet  people — bigger 
people — people  who'll  help  me.  Interesting  work 
somewhere.  My  God,  there  must  be." 


DALYRIMPLE   GOES  WRONG  229 

With  sickening  truth  it  occurred  to  him  that  his 
facility  for  meeting  people  was  limited.  Of  all 
places  it  was  here  in  his  own  town  that  he  should  be 
known,  was  known — famous — before  the  waters  of 
oblivion  had  rolled  over  him. 

You  had  to  cut  corners,  that  was  all.  Pull — rela 
tionship — wealthy  marriages 

For  several  miles  the  continued  reiteration  of 
this  preoccupied  him  and  then  he  perceived  that 
the  rain  had  become  thicker  and  more  opaque  in 
the  heavy  gray  of  twilight  and  that  the  houses  were 
falling  away.  The  district  of  full  blocks,  then  of 
big  houses,  then  of  scattering  little  ones,  passed  and 
great  sweeps  of  misty  country  opened  out  on  both 
sides.  It  was  hard  walking  here.  The  sidewalk 
had  given  place  to  a  dirt  road,  streaked  with  furious 
brown  rivulets  that  splashed  and  squashed  around 
his  shoes. 

Cutting  corners — the  words  began  to  fall  apart, 
forming  curious  phrasings — little  illuminated  pieces 
of  themselves.-  They  resolved  into  sentences,  each 
of  which  had  a  strangely  familiar  ring. 

Cutting  corners  meant  rejecting  the  old  child 
hood  principles  that  success  came  from  faithfulness 
to  duty,  that  evil  was  necessarily  punished  or  virtue 
necessarily  rewarded — that  honest  poverty  was  hap 
pier  than  corrupt  riches. 

It  meant  being  hard. 

This  phrase  appealed  to  him  and  he  repeated  it 
over  and  over.  It  had  to  do  somehow  with  Mr. 
Macy  and  Charley  Moore — the  attitudes,  the 
methods  of  each  of  them. 


230  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

He  stopped  and  felt  his  clothes.  He  was  drenched 
to  the  skin.  He  looked  about  him  and,  selecting 
a  place  in  the  fence  where  a  tree  sheltered  it,  perched 
himself  there. 

In  my  credulous  years — he  thought — they  told 
me  that  evil  was  a  sort  of  dirty  hue,  just  as  definite 
as  a  soiled  collar,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  evil  is 
only  a  manner  of  hard  luck,  or  heredity-and-environ- 
ment,  or  "being  found  out."  It  hides  in  the  vacilla 
tions  of  dubs  like  Charley  Moore  as  certainly  as  it 
does  in  the  intolerance  of  Macy,  and  if  it  ever  gets 
much  more  tangible  it  becomes  merely  an  arbitrary 
label  to  paste  on  the  unpleasant  things  in  other 
people's  lives. 

In  fact — he  concluded — it  isn't  worth  worrying 
over  what's  evil  and  what  isn't.  Good  and  evil 
aren't  any  standard  to  me — and  they  can  be  a  devil 
of  a  bad  hindrance  when  I  want  something.  When 
I  want  something  bad  enough,  common  sense  tells 
me  to  go  and  take  it — and  not  get  caught. 

And  then  suddenly  Dalyrimple  knew  what  he 
wanted  first.  He  wanted  fifteen  dollars  to  pay  his 
overdue  board  bill. 

With  a  furious  energy  he  jumped  from  the  fence, 
whipped  off  his  coat,  and  from  its  black  lining  cut 
with  his  knife  a  piece  about  five  inches  square.  He 
made  two  holes  near  its  edge  and  then  fixed  it  on 
his  face,  pulling  his  hat  down  to  hold  it  in  place.  It 
flapped  grotesquely  and  then  dampened  and  clung 
to  his  forehead  and  cheeks. 

Now  .  .  .     The  twilight  had  merged  to  dripping 


DALYRIMPLE  GOES  WRONG  231 

dusk  .  .  .  black  as  pitch.  He  began  to  walk 
quickly  back  toward  town,  not  waiting  to  remove 
tie  mask  but  watching  the  road  with  difficulty 
through  the  jagged  eye-holes.  He  was  not  con 
scious  of  any  nervousness  ...  the  only  tension  was 
caused  by  a  desire  to  do  the  thing  as  soon  as  possible. 

He  reached  the  first  sidewalk,  continued  on  until 
he  saw  a  hedge  far  from  any  lamp-post,  and  turned 
in  behind  it.  Within  a  minute  he  heard  several 
series  of  footsteps — he  waited — it  was  a  woman  and 
he  held  his  breath  until  she  passed  .  .  .  and  then 
a  man,  a  laborer.  The  next  passer,  he  felt,  would 
be  what  he  wanted  ...  the  laborer's  footfalls  died 
far  up  the  drenched  street  .  .  .  other  steps  grew 
near,  grew  suddenly  louder. 

Dalyrimple  braced  himself. 

"Put  up  your  hands !" 

The  man  stopped,  uttered  an  absurd  little  grunt, 
and  thrust  pudgy  arms  skyward. 

Dalyrimple  went  through  the  waistcoat. 

"Now,  you  shrimp,"  he  said,  setting  his  hand 
suggestively  to  his  own  hip  pocket,  "you  run,  and 
stamp — loud !  If  I  hear  your  feet  stop  I'll  put  a 
shot  after  you!" 

Then  he  stood  there  in  sudden  uncontrollable 
laughter  as  audibly  frightened  footsteps  scurried 
away  into  the  night. 

After  a  moment  he  thrust  the  roll  of  bills  into  his 
pocket,  snatched  off  his  mask,  and  running  quickly 
across  the  street,  darted  down  an  alley. 


232  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

IV 

Yet,  however  Dalyrimple  justified  himself  intel 
lectually,  he  had  many  bad  moments  in  the  weeks 
immediately  following  his  decision.  The  tremen 
dous  J3ressu£e_of_sentiment  and  inherited^  tradition 
kept  raising  riot  with ^  JiisltttrtucTe;  He  felt  morally 
lonely. 

The  noon  after  his  first  venture  he  ate  in  a  little 
lunch-room  with  Charley  Moore  and,  watching  him 
unspread  the  paper,  waited  for  a  remark  about  the 
hold-up  of  the  day  before.  But  either  the  hold-up 
was  not  mentioned  or  Charley  wasn't  interested. 
He  turned  listlessly  to  the  sporting  sheet,  read 
Doctor  Crane's  crop  of  seasoned  bromides,  took  in 
an  editorial  on  ambition  with  his  mouth  slightly 
ajar,  and  then  skipped  to  Mutt  and  Jeff. 

Poor  Charley — with  his  faint  aura  of  evil  and  his 
mind  that  refused  to  focus,  playing  a  lifeless  soli 
taire  with  cast-off  mischief. 

Yet  Charley  belonged  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fence.  In  him  could  be  stirred  up  all  the  flamings 
and  denunciations  of  righteousness;  he  would  weep 
at  a  stage  heroine's  lost  virtue,  he  could  become 
lofty  and  contemptuous  at  the  idea  of  dishonor. 

On  my  side,  thought  Dalyrimple,  there  aren't 
any  resting-places;  a  man  who's  a  strong  criminal 
is  after  the  weak  criminals  as  well,  so  it's  all  guerilla 
warfare  over  here. 

What  will  it  all  do  to  me?  he  thought,  with  a 
persistent  weariness.  Will  it  take  the  color  out  of 


DALYRIMPLE   GOES  WRONG  233 

life  with  the  honor?  Will  it  scatter  my  courage 
and  dull  my  mind? — despiritualize  me  completely 
— does  it  mean  eventual  barrenness,  eventual  re 
morse,  failure? 

With  a  great  surge  of  anger,  he  would  fling  his 
mind  upon  the  barrier — and  stand  there  with  the 
flashing  bayonet  of  his  pride.  Other  men  who 
broke  the  laws  of  justice  and  charity  lied  to  all  the 
world.  He  at  any  rate  would  not  lie  to  himself. 
He  was  more  than  Byronic  now:  not  the  spiritual 
rebel,  Don  Juan;  not  the  philosophical  rebel,  Faust; 
but  a  new  psychological  rebel  of  his  own  century — 
defying  the  sentimental  a  priori  forms  of  his  own 

mind 

- 

Happiness  was  what  he  wanted — a  slowly  rising   I 
scale  of  gratifications  of  the  normal  appetites — and 
he  had  a  strong  conviction  that  the  materials,  if  not  I 
the  inspiration  of  happiness,  could  be  bought  withj 
money. 


The  night  came  that  drew  him  out  upon  his  second 
venture,  and  as  he  walked  the  dark  street  he  felt  in 
himself  a  great  resemblance  to  a  cat — a  certain  sup 
ple,  swinging  litheness.  His  muscles  were  rippling 
smoothly  and  sleekly  under  his  spare,  healthy  flesh 
—he  had  an  absurd  desire  to  bound  along  the  street, 
to  run  dodging  among  trees,  to  turn  "cart-wheels" 
over  soft  grass. 

It  was  not  crisp,  but  in  the  air  lay  a  faint  sugges 
tion  of  acerbity,  inspirational  rather  than  chilling. 


234  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"The  moon  is  down — I  have  not  heard  the 
clock!" 

He  laughed  in  delight  at  the  line  which  an  early 
memory  had  endowed  with  a  hushed,  awesome 
beauty. 

He  passed  a  man,  and  then  another  a  quarter  of 
mile  afterward. 

He  was  on  Philmore  Street  now  and  it  was  very 
dark.  He  blessed  the  city  council  for  not  having 
put  in  new  lamp-posts  as  a  recent  budget  had  recom 
mended.  Here  was  the  red-brick  Sterner  residence 
which  marked  the  beginning  of  the  avenue;  here 
was  the  Jordon  house,  the  Eisenhaurs',  the  Dents', 
the  Markhams',  the  Erasers', •  the  Hawkins',  where 
he  had  been  a  guest;  the  Willoughbys',  the  Everetts', 
colonial  and  ornate;  the  little  cottage  where  lived 
the  Watts  old  maids  between  the  imposing  fronts  of 
the  Macys'  and  the  Krupstadts';  the  Craigs'- 

Ah  .  .  .  there  !  He  paused,  wavered  violently — 
far  up  the  street  was  a  blot,  a  man  walking,  possibly 
a  policeman.  After  an  eternal  second  he  found 
himself  following  the  vague,  ragged  shadow  of  a 
lamp-post  across  a  lawn,  running  bent  very  low. 
Then  he  was  standing  tense,  without  breath  or  need 
of  it,  in  the  shadow  of  his  limestone  prey. 

Interminably  he  listened — a  mile  off  a  cat  howled, 
a  hundred  yards  away  another  took  up  the  hymn 
in  a  demoniacal  snarl,  and  he  felt  his  heart  dip 
and  swoop,  acting  as  shock-absorber  for  his  mind. 
There  were  other  sounds;  the  faintest  fragment  of 
song  far  away;  strident,  gossiping  laughter  from  a 


DALYRIMPLE   GOES  WRONG  235 

back  porch  diagonally  across  the  alley;  and  crickets, 
crickets  singing  in  the  patched,  patterned,  moon 
lit  grass  of  the  yard.  Within  the  house  there 
seemed  to  lie  an  ominous  silence.  He  was  glad  he 
did  not  know  who  lived  here. 

His  slight  shiver  hardened  to  steel;  the  steel  soft 
ened  and  his  nerves  became  pliable  as  leather;  grip 
ping  his  hands  he  gratefully  found  them  supple,  and 
taking  out  knife  and  pliers  he  went  to  work  on  the 
screen. 

So  sure  was  he  that  he  was  unobserved  that, 
from  the  dining-room  where  in  a  minute  he  found 
himself,  he  leaned  out  and  carefully  pulled  the  screen 
up  into  position,  balancing  it  so  it  would  neither 
fall  by  chance  nor  be  a  serious  obstacle  to  a  sudden 
exit. 

Then  he  put  the  open  knife  in  his  coat  pocket, 
took  out  his  pocket-flash,  and  tiptoed  around  the 
room. 

There  was  nothing  here  he  could  use — the  dining- 
room  had  never  been  included  in  his  plans,  for  the 
town  was  too  small  to  permit  disposing  of  silver. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  his  plans  were  of  the  vaguest. 
He  had  found  that  with  a  mind  like  his,  lucrative  in 
intelligence,  intuition,  and  lightning  decision,  it  was 
best  to  have  but  the  skeleton  of  a  campaign.  The 
machine-gun  episode  had  taught  him  that.  And 
he  was  afraid  that  a  method  preconceived  would 
give  him  two  points  of  view  in  a  crisis — and  two 
points  of  view  meant  wavering. 

He  stumbled  slightly  on  a  chair,  held  his  breath, 


236  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

listened,  went  on,  found  the  hall,  found  the  stairs, 
started  up;  the  seventh  stair  creaked  at  his  step, 
the  ninth,  the  fourteenth.  He  was  counting  them 
automatically.  At  the  third  creak  he  paused  again 
for  over  a  minute — and  in  that  minute  he  felt  more 
alone  than  he  had  ever  felt  before.  Between  the 
lines  on  patrol,  even  when  alone,  he  had  had  behind 
him  the  moral  support  of  half  a  billion  people;  now 
he  was  alone,  pitted  against  that  same  moral  pres 
sure — a  bandit.  He  had  never  felt  this  fear,  yet 
he  had  never  felt  this  exultation. 

The  stairs  came  to  an  end,  a  doorway  approached; 
he  went  in  and  listened  to  regular  breathing.  His 
feet  were  economical  of  steps  and  his  body  swayed 
sometimes  at  stretching  as  he  felt  over  the  bureau, 
pocketing  all  articles  which  held  promise — he  could 
not  have  enumerated  them  ten  seconds  afterward. 
He  felt  on  a  chair  for  possible  trousers,  found  soft 
garments,  women's  lingerie.  The  corners  of  his 
mouth  smiled  mechanically. 

Another  room  .  .  .  the  same  breathing,  enlivened 
by  one  ghastly  snort  that  sent  his  heart  again  on  its 
tour  of  his  breast.  Round  object — watch;  chain; 
roll  of  bills;  stick-pins;  two  rings — he  remembered 
that  he  had  got  rings  from  the  other  bureau.  He 
started  out,  winced  as  a  faint  glow  flashed  in  front 
of  him,  facing  him.  God ! — it  was  the  glow  of  his 
own  wrist-watch  on  his  outstretched  arm. 

Down  the  stairs.  He  skipped  two  creaking  steps 
but  found  another.  He  was  all  right  now,  prac 
tically  safe;  as  he  neared  the  bottom  he  felt  a  slight 


DALYRIMPLE  GOES  WRONG  237 

boredom.  He  reached  the  dining-room — consid 
ered  the  silver — again  decided  against  it. 

Back  in  his  room  at  the  boarding-house  he  exam 
ined  the  additions  to  his  personal  property: 

Sixty-five  dollars  in  bills. 

A  platinum  ring  with  three  medium  diamonds, 
worth,  probably,  about  seven  hundred  dollars. 
Diamonds  were  going  up. 

A  cheap  gold-plated  ring  with  the  initials  O.  S. 
and  the  date  inside — '03 — probably  a  class-ring  from 
school.  Worth  a  few  dollars.  Unsalable. 

A  red-cloth  case  containing  a  set  of.  false  teeth. 

A  silver  watch. 

A  gold  chain  worth  more  than  the  watch. 

An  empty  ring-box. 

A  little  ivory  Chinese  god — probably  a  desk 
ornament. 

A  dollar  and  sixty- two  cents  in  small  change. 

He  put  the  money  under  his  pillow  and  the  other 
things  in  the  toe  of  an  infantry  boot,  stuffing  a 
stocking  in  on  top  of  them.  Then  for  two  hours 
his  mind  raced  like  a  high-power  engine  here  and 
there  through  his  life,  past  and  future,  through  fear 
and  laughter.  With  a  vague,  inopportune  wish 
that  he  were  married,  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  about 
half  past  five. 

VI 

Though  the  newspaper  account  of  the  burglary 
failed  to  mention  the  false  teeth,  they  worried  him 
considerably.  The  picture  of  a  human  waking  in 


238  FLAPPERS  AND   PHILOSOPHERS 

the  cool  dawn  and  groping  for  them  in  vain,  of  a 
soft,  toothless  breakfast,  of  a  strange,  hollow,  lisp 
ing  voice  calling  the  police  station,  of  weary,  dis 
pirited  visits  to  the  dentist,  roused  a  great  fatherly 
pity  in  him. 

Trying  to  ascertain  whether  they  belonged  to  a 
man  or  a  woman,  he  took  them  carefully  out  of  the 
case  and  held  them  up  near  his  mouth.  He  moved 
his  own  jaws  experimentally;  he  measured  with 
his  fingers;  but  he  failed  to  decide:  they  might  be 
long  either  to  a  large-mouthed  woman  or  a  small- 
mouthed  man. 

On  a  warm  impulse  he  wrapped  them  in  brown 
paper  from  the  bottom  of  his  army  trunk,  and 
printed  FALSE  TEETH  on  the  package  in  clumsy 
pencil  letters.  Then,  the  next  night,  he  walked 
down  Philmore  Street,  and  shied  the  package  onto 
the  lawn  so  that  it  would  be  near  the  door.  Next 
day  the  paper  announced  that  the  police  had  a 
clew — they  knew  that  the  burglar  was  in  town. 
However,  they  didn't  mention  what  the  clew  was. 

VII 

At  the  end  of  a  month  "Burglar  Bill  of  the  Silver 
District"  was  the  nurse-girl's  standby  for  frighten 
ing  children.  Five  burglaries  were  attributed  to 
him,  but  though  Dalyrimple  had  only  committed 
three,  he  considered  that  majority  had  it  and  appro 
priated  the  title  to  himself.  He  had  once  been  seen 
-—"a  large  bloated  creature  with  the  meanest  face 


DALYRIMPLE  GOES  WRONG  239 

you  ever  laid  eyes  on."  Mrs.  Henry  Coleman, 
awaking  at  two  o'clock  at  the  beam  of  an  electric 
torch  flashed  in  her  eye,  could  not  have  been  ex 
pected  to  recognize  Bryan  Dalyrimple  at  whom  she 
had  waved  flags  last  Fourth  of  July,  and  whom  she 
had  described  as  "not  at  all  the  daredevil  type,  do 
you  think  ?" 

When  Dalyrimple  kept  his  imagination  at  white 
heat  he  managed  to  glorify  his  own  attitude,  his 
emancipation  from  petty  scruples  and  remorses — 
but  let  him  once  allow  his  thought  to  rove  unar- 
mored,  great  unexpected  horrors  and  depressions 
would  overtake  him.  Then  for  reassurance  he  had 
to  go  back  to  think  out  the  whole  thing  over  again. 
He  found  that  it  was  on  the  whole  better  to  give  up 
considering  himself  as  a  rebel.  It  was  more  con 
soling  to  think  of  every  one  else  as  a  fool. 

His  attitude  toward  Mr.  Macy  underwent  a 
change.  He  no  longer  felt  a  dim  animosity  and  in 
feriority  in  his  presence.  As  his  fourth  month  in 
the  store  ended  he  found  himself  regarding  his  em 
ployer  in  a  manner  that  was  almost  fraternal.  He 
had  a  vague  but  very  assured  conviction  that  Mr. 
Macy's  innermost  soul  would  have  abetted  and  ap 
proved.  He  no  longer  worried  about  his  future. 
He  had  the  intention  of  accumulating  several  thou 
sand  dollars  and  then  clearing  out — going  east,  back 
to  France,  down  to  South  America.  Half  a  dozen 
times  in  the  last  two  months  he  had  been  about  to 
stop  work,  but  a  fear  of  attracting  attention  to  his 
being  in  funds  prevented  him.  So  he  worked  on, 


240  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

no  longer  in  listlessness,  but  with  contemptuous 
amusement. 

VIII 

Then  with  astounding  suddenness  something  hap 
pened  that  changed  his  plans  and  put  an  end  to  his 
burglaries. 

Mr.  Macy  sent  for  him  one  afternoon  and  with  a 
great  show  of  jovial  mystery  asked  him  if  he  had  an 
engagement  that  night.  If  he  hadn't,  would  he 
please  call  on  Mr.  Alfred  J.  Fraser  at  eight  o'clock. 
Dalyrimple's  wonder  was  mingled  with  uncertainty. 
He  debated  with  himself  whether  it  were  not  his 
cue  to  take  the  first  train  out  of  town.  But  an 
hour's  consideration  decided  him  that  his  fears  were 
unfounded  and  at  eight  o'clock  he  arrived  at  the  big 
Fraser  house  in  Philmore  Avenue. 

Mr.  Fraser  was  commonly  supposed  to  be  the 
biggest  political  influence  in  the  city.  His  brother 
was  Senator  Fraser,  his  son-in-law  was  Congress 
man  Demming,  and  his  influence,  though  not  wielded 
in  such  a  way  as  to  make  him  an  objectionable  boss, 
was  strong  nevertheless. 

He  had  a  great,  huge  face,  deep-set  eyes,  and  a 
barn-door  of  an  upper  lip,  the  melange  approaching 
a  worthy  climax  in  a  long  professional  jaw. 

During  his  conversation  with  Dalyrimple  his  ex 
pression  kept  starting  toward  a  smile,  reached  a 
cheerful  optimism,  and  then  receded  back  to  im 
perturbability. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  he  said,  holding  out  his 


DALYRIMPLE   GOES   WRONG  241 

hand.  "Sit  down.  I  suppose  you're  wondering 
why  I  wanted  you.  Sit  down." 

Dalyrimple  sat  down. 

"Mr.  Dalyrimple,  how  old  are  you?" 

"I'm  twenty-three." 

"You're  young.  But  that  doesn't  mean  you're 
foolish.  Mr.  Dalyrimple,  what  I've  got  to  say 
won't  take  long.  I'm  going  to  make  you  a  proposi 
tion.  To  begin  at  the  beginning,  I've  been  watch 
ing  you  ever  since  last  Fourth  of  July  when 
you  made  that  speech  in  response  to  the  loving- 
cup." 

Dalyrimple  murmured  disparagingly,  but  Fraser 
waved  him  to  silence. 

"It  was  a  speech  I've  remembered.  It  was  a 
brainy  speech,  straight  from  the  shoulder,  and  it  got 
to  everybody  in  that  crowd.  I  know.  I've  watched 
crowds  for  years."  He  cleared  his  throat,  as  if 
tempted  to  digress  on  his  knowledge  of  crowds — then 
continued.  "But,  Mr.  Dalyrimple,  I've  seen  too 
many  young  men  who  promised  brilliantly  go  to 
pieces,  fail  through  want  of  steadiness,  too  many 
high-power  ideas,  and  not  enough  willingness  to 
work.  So  I  waited.  I  wanted  to  see  what  you'd 
do.  I  wanted  to  see  if  you'd  go  to  work,  and  if 
you'd  stick  to  what  you  started." 

Dalyrimple  felt  a  glow  settle  over  him. 

"So,"  continued  Fraser,  "when  Theron  Macy 
told  me  you'd  started  down  at  his  place,  I  kept 
watching  you,  and  I  followed  your  record  through 
him.  The  first  month  I  was  afraid  for  a  while.  He 


242  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

told  me  you  were  getting  restless,  too  good  for  your 
job,  hinting  around  for  a  raise-  -  " 

Dalyrimple  started. 

"  —  But  he  said  after  that  you  evidently  made  up 
your  mind  to  shut  up  and  stick  to  it.  That's  the 
stuff  I  like  in  a  young  man  !  That's  the  stuff  that 
wins  out.  And  don't  think  I  don't  understand.  I 
know  how  much  harder  it  was  for  you,  after  all  that 
silly  flattery  a  lot  of  old  women  had  been  giving  you. 
I  know  what  a  fight  it  must  have  been  -  3 

Dalyrimple's  face  was  burning  brightly.  He  felt 
young  and  strangely  ingenuous. 

"Dalyrimple,  you've  got  brains  and  you've  got 
the  stuff  in  you  —  and  that's  what  I  want.  I'm 
going  to  put  you  into  the  State  Senate." 


"The  State  Senate.  We  want  a  young  man  who 
has  got  brains,  but  is  solid  and  not  a  loafer.  And 
when  I  say  State  Senate  I  don't  stop  there.  We're 
up  against  it  here,  Dalyrimple.  We've  got  to  get 
some  young  men  into  politics  —  you  know  the  old 
blood  that's  been  running  on  the  party  ticket  year 
in  and  year  out." 

Dalyrimple  licked  his  lips. 

"You'll  run  me  for  the  State  Senate?" 

"I'll  put  you  in  the  State  Senate." 

Mr.  Eraser's  expression  had  now  reached  the 
point  nearest  a  smile  and  Dalyrimple  in  a  happy 
frivolity  felt  himself  urging  it  mentally  on  —  but  it 
stopped,  locked,  and  slid  from  him.  The  barn-door 
and  the  jaw  were  separated  by  a  line  straight  as  a 


DALYRIMPLE  GOES  WRONG  243 

nail.    Dalyrimple  remembered  with  an  effort  that 
it  was  a  mouth,  and  talked  to  it. 

"But  I'm  through,"  he  said.  "My  notoriety's 
dead.  People  are  fed  up  with  me." 

"Those  things,"  answered  Mr.  Fraser,  "are  me 
chanical.  Linotype  is  a  resuscitator  of  reputations. 
Wait  till  you  see  the  Herald,  beginning  next  week— 
that  is  if  you're  with  us — that  is,"  and  his  voice 
hardened  slightly,  "if  you  haven't  got  too  many 
ideas  yourself  about  how  things  ought  to  be  run." 

"No,"  said  Dalyrimple,  looking  him  frankly  in 
the  eyes.  "You'll  have  to  give  me  a  lot  of  advice 
at  first." 

"Very  well.  I'll  take  care  of  your  reputation 
then.  Just  keep  yourself  on  the  right  side  of  the 
fence." 

Dalyrimple  started  at  this  repetition  of  a  phrase 
he  had  thought  of  so  much  lately.  There  was  a 
sudden  ring  at  the  door-bell. 

"That's  Macy  now,"  observed  Fraser,  rising. 
"I'll  go  let  him  in.  The  servants  have  gone  to 
bed." 

He  left  Dalyrimple  there  in  a  dream.  The  world 
was  opening  up  suddenly —  The  State  Senate,  the 
United  States  Senate — so  life  was  this  after  all — 
cutting  corners — cutting  corners — common  sense, 
that  was  the  rule.  No  more  foolish  risks  now  unless 
necessity  called — but  it  .was  being  hard^tiiat  count 
ed—  Never  to  let  ..remorse  OF  self-reproach  lose  him 
a  night's  sleep — let  his  life  be.  a  sword  of  courage- 
there  was  no  payment — all  that  was  drivel — drivel. 


244  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  clinched  hands  in  a  sort 
of  triumph. 

"Well,  Bryan/'  said  Mr.  Macy  stepping  through 
the  portieres. 

The  two  older  men  smiled  their  half -smiles  at  him. 

"Well,  Bryan,"  said  Mr.  Macy  again. 

Dalyrimple  smiled  also. 

"How  do,  Mr.  Macy?" 

He  wondered  if  some  telepathy  between  them 
had  made  this  new  appreciation  possible — some  in 
visible  realization.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Macy  held  out  his  hand. 

"I'm  glad  we're  to  be  associated  in  this  scheme— 
I've  been  for  you  all  along— especially  lately.  I'm 
glad  we're  to  be  on  the  same  side  of  the  fence." 

"I  want  to  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Dalyrimple  sim 
ply.  He  felt  a  whimsical  moisture  gathering  back 
of  his  eyes. 


THE  FOUR  FISTS 

AT  the  present  time  no  one  I  know  has  the  slightest 
desire  to  hit  Samuel  Meredith;  possibly  this  is  be 
cause  a  man  over  fifty  is  liable  to  be  rather  severely 
cracked  at  the  impact  of  a  hostile  fist,  but,  for  my 
part,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  all  his  hitable 
qualities  have  quite  vanished.  But  it  is  certain 
that  at  various  times  in  his  life  hitable  qualities 
were  in  his  face,  as  surely  as  kissable  qualities  have 
ever  lurked  in  a  girl's  lips. 

I'm  sure  every  one  has  met  a  man  like  that,  been 
casually  introduced,  even  made  a  friend  of  him,  yet 
felt  he  was  the  sort  who  aroused  passionate  dislike 
—expressed  by  some  in  the  involuntary  clinching  of 
fists,  and  in  others  by  mutterings  about  "takin'  a 
poke"  and  "landin'  a  swift  smash  in  ee  eye."  In 
the  juxtaposition  of  Samuel  Meredith's  features  this 
quality  was  so  strong  that  it  influenced  his  entire 
life. 

What  was  it?  Not  the  shape,  certainly,  for  he 
was  a  pleasant-looking  man  from  earliest  youth: 
broad-browed,  with  gray  eyes  that  were  frank  and 
friendly.  Yet  I've  heard  him  tell  a  room  full  of 
reporters  angling  for  a  "success"  story  that  he'd  be 
ashamed  to  tell  them  the  truth,  that  they  wouldn't 
believe  it,  that  it  wasn't  one  story  but  four,  that  the 
public  would  not  want  to  read  about  a  man  who 
had  been  walloped  into  prominence. 

245 


246  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

It  all  started  at  Phillips  Andover  Academy  when 
he  was  fourteen.  He  had  been  brought  up  on  a 
diet  of  caviar  and  bell-boys'  legs  in  half  the  capitals 
of  Europe,  and  it  was  pure  luck  that  his  mother  had 
nervous  prostration  and  had  to  delegate  his  educa 
tion  to  less  tender,  less  biassed  hands. 

At  Andover  he  was  given  a  roommate  named 
Gilly  Hood.  Gilly  was  thirteen,  undersized,  and 
rather  the  school  pet.  From  the  September  day 
when  Mr.  Meredith's  valet  stowed  Samuel's  clothing 
in  the  best  bureau  and  asked,  on  departing,  "hif 
there  was  hany thing  helse,  Master  Samuel?"  Gilly 
cried  out  that  the  faculty  had  played  him  false. 
He  felt  like  an  irate  frog  in  whose  bowl  has  been  put 
a  goldfish. 

"Good  gosh!"  he  complained  to  his  sympathetic 
contemporaries,  "he's  a  damn  stuck-up  Willie. 
He  said,  'Are  the  crowd  here  gentlemen?'  and  I 
said,  'No,  they're  boys,'  and  he  said  age  didn't  mat 
ter,  and  I  said,  'Who  said  it  did?'  Let  him  get 
fresh  with  me,  the  ole  pieface!" 

For  three  weeks  Gilly  endured  in  silence  young 
Samuel's  comments  on  the  clothes  and  habits  of 
Gilly's  personal  friends,  endured  French  phrases  in 
conversation,  endured  a  hundred  half -feminine  mean 
nesses  that  show  what  a  nervous  mother  can  do  to 
a  boy,  if  she  keeps  close  enough  to  him — then  a 
storm  broke  in  the  aquarium. 

Samuel  was  out.  A  crowd  had  gathered  to  hear 
Gilly  be  wrathful  about  his  roommate's  latest 
sins. 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  247 

"He  said,  'Oh,  I  don't  like  the  windows  open  at 
night,'  he  said, ' except  only  a  little  bit,'"  complained 
Gilly. 

"Don't  let  him  boss  you." 

"Boss  me?  You  bet  he  won't.  I  open  those 
windows,  I  guess,  but  the  darn  fool  won't  take  turns 
shuttin'  'em  in  the  morning." 

"Make  him,  Gilly,  why  don't  you?" 

"I'm  going  to."  Gilly  nodded  his  head  in  fierce 
agreement.  "Don't  you  worry.  He  needn't  think 
I'm  any  ole  butler." 

"Le's  see  you  make  him." 

At  this  point  the  darn  fool  entered  in  person  and 
included  the  crowd  in  one  of  his  irritating  smiles. 
Two  boys  said,  "'Lo,  Mer'dith";  the  others  gave 
him  a  chilly  glance  and  went  on  talking  to  Gilly. 
But  Samuel  seemed  unsatisfied. 

"Would  you  mind  not  sitting  on  my  bed?"  he 
suggested  politely  to  two  of  Gilly's  particulars  who 
were  perched  very  much  at  ease. 

"Huh?" 

"  My  bed.     Can't  you  understand  English  ?  " 

This  was  adding  insult  to  injury.  There  were 
several  comments  on  the  bed's  sanitary  condition 
and  the  evidence  within  it  of  animal  life. 

"S'matter  with  your  old  bed?"  demanded  Gilly 
truculently. 

"The  bed's  all  right,  but- 

Gilly  interrupted  this  sentence  by  rising  and  walk 
ing  up  to  Samuel.  He  paused  several  inches  away 
and  eyed  him  fiercely. 


248  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"You  an'  your  crazy  ole  bed/'  he  began.  "You 
an'  your  crazy — 

"Go  to  it,  Gilly,"  murmured  some  one. 
"Show  the  darn  fool- 
Samuel  returned  the  gaze  coolly. 

"Well,"  he  said  finally,  "it's  my  bed " 

He  got  no  further,  for  Gilly  hauled  off  and  hit 
him  succinctly  in  the  nose. 
"Yea!    Gilly!" 
"Show  the  big  bully!" 
"Just  let  him  touch  you— he'll  see!" 
The  group  closed  in  on  them  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  Samuel  realized  the  insuperable  in 
convenience   of   being   passionately    detesleoTT  He 
gazed  around  helplessly  at  the  glowering,  violently 
hostile  faces.     He  towered  a  head  taller  than  his 
roommate,  so  if  he  hit  back  he'd  be  called  a  bully 
and  have  half  a  dozen  more  fights  on  his  hands 
within  five  minutes;    yet  if  he  didn't  he  was   a 
coward.     For    a    moment    he    stood    there    facing 
Gilly 's  blazing  eyes,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  chok 
ing  sound,  he  forced  his  way  through  the  ring  and 
rushed  from  the  room. 

The  month  following  bracketed  the  thirty  most 
miserable  days  of  his  life.  Every  waking  moment 
he  was  under  the  lashing  tongues  of  his  contempo 
raries;  his  habits  and  mannerisms  became  butts  for 
intolerable  witticisms  and,  of  course,  the  sensitive 
ness  of  adolescence  was  a  further  thorn.  He  con 
sidered  that  he  was  a  natural  pariah;  that  the  un 
popularity  at  school  would  foUowTnm  through  life. 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  249 

When  he  went  home  for  the  Christmas  holidays  he 
was  so  despondent  that  his  father  sent  him  to  a 
nerve  specialist.  When  he  returned  to  Andover  he 
arranged  to  arrive  late  so  that  he  could  be  alone  in 
the  bus  during  the  drive  from  station  to  school. 

Of  course  when  he  had  learned  to  keep  his  mouth 
shut  every  one  promptly  forgot  all  about  him.  The 
next  autumn,  with  his  realization  that  considera 
tion  for  others  was  the  discreet  attitude,  he  made 
good  use  of  the  clean  start  given  him  by  the  short 
ness  of  boyhood  memory.  By  the  beginning  of  his 
senior  year  Samuel  Meredith  was  one  of  the  best- 
liked  boys  of  his  class — and  no  one  was  any  stronger 
for  him  than  his  first  friend  and  constant  com 
panion,  Gilly  Hood. 

II 

Samuel  became  the  sort  of  college  student  who  in 
the  early  nineties  drove  tandems  and  coaches  and 
tallyhos  between  Princeton  and  Yale  and  New  York 
City  to  show  that  they  appreciated  the  social  im 
portance  of  football  games.  He  believed  passion 
ately  in  good  form — his  choosing  of  gloves,  his  tying 
of  ties,  his  holding  of  reins  were  imitated  by  impres 
sionable  freshmen.  Outside  of  his  own  set  he  was 
considered  rather  a  snob,  but  as  his  set  was  the  set, 
it  never  worried  him.  He  played  football  in  the 
autumn,  drank  high-balls  in  the  winter,  and  rowed 
in  the  spring.  Samuel  despised  all  those  who  were 
merely  sportsmen  without  being  gentlemen,  or 
merely  gentlemen  without  being  sportsmen. 


250  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

He  lived  in  New  York  and  often  brought  home 
several  of  his  friends  for  the  week-end.  Those  were 
the  days  of  the  horse-car  and  in  case  of  a  crush  it 
was,  of  course,  the  proper  thing  for  any  one  of 
Samuel's  set  to  rise  and  deliver  his  seat  to  a  stand 
ing  lady  with  a  formal  bow.  One  night  in  SamueFs 
junior  year  he  boarded  a  car  with  two  of  his  inti 
mates.  There  were  three  vacant  seats.  When 
Samuel  sat  down  he  noticed  a  heavy-eyed  laboring 
man  sitting  next  to  him  who  smelt  objectionably  of 
garlic,  sagged  slightly  against  Samuel  and,  spread 
ing  a  little  as  a  tired  man  will,  took  up  quite  too 
much  room. 

The  car  had  gone  several  blocks  when  it  stopped 
for  a  quartet  of  young  girls,  and,  of  course,  the 
three  men  of  the  world  sprang  to  their  feet  and  prof 
fered  their  seats  with  due  observance  of  form.  Un 
fortunately,  the  laborer,  being  unacquainted  with 
the  code  of  neckties  and  tallyhos,  failed  to  follow 
their  example,  and  one  young  lady  was  left  at  an 
embarrassed  stance.  Fourteen  eyes  glared  reproach 
fully  at  the  barbarian;  seven  lips  curled  slightly; 
but  the  object  of  scorn  stared  stolidly  into  the  fore 
ground  in  sturdy  unconsciousness  of  his  despicable 
conduct.  Samuel  was  the  most  violently  affected. 
He  was  humiliated  that  any  male  should  so  con 
duct  himself.  He  spoke  aloud. 

" There's  a  lady  standing/'  he  said  sternly. 

That  should  have  been  quite  enough,  but  the 
object  of  scorn  only  looked  up  blankly.  The  stand 
ing  girl  tittered  and  exchanged  nervous  glances  with 
her  companions.  But  Samuel  was  aroused. 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  251 

"There's  a  lady  standing/'  he  repeated,  rather 
raspingly.  The  man  seemed  to  comprehend. 

"I  pay  my  fare,"  he  said  quietly. 

Samuel  turned  red  and  his  hands  clinched,  but 
the  conductor  was  looking  their  way,  so  at  a  warn 
ing  nod  from  his  friends  he  subsided  into  sullen 
gloom. 

They  reached  their  destination  and  left  the  car, 
but  so  did  the  laborer,  who  followed  them,  swinging 
his  little  pail.  Seeing  his  chance,  Samuel  no  longer 
resisted  his  aristocratic  inclination.  He  turned 
around  and,  launching  a  full-featured,  dime-novel 
sneer,  made  a  loud  remark  about  the  right  of  the 
lower  animals  to  ride  with  human  beings. 

In  a  half-second  the  workman  had  dropped  his 
pail  and  let  fly  at  him.  Unprepared,  Samuel  took 
the  blow  neatly  on  the  jaw  and  sprawled  full  length 
into  the  cobblestone  gutter. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me!"  cried  his  assailant.  "I 
been  workin'  all  day.  I'm  tired  as  hell!" 

As  he  spoke  the  sudden  anger  died  out  of  his  eyes 
and  the  mask  of  weariness  dropped  again  over  his 
face.  He  turned  and  picked  up  his  pail.  Samuel's 
friends  took  a  quick  step  in  his  direction. 

"Wait!"  Samuel  had  risen  slowly  and  was  mo 
tioning  them  back.  Some  time,  somewhere,  he  had 
been  struck  like  that  before.  Then  he  remembered 
— Gilly  Hood.  In  the  silence,  as  he  dusted  himself 
off,  the  whole  scene  in  the  room  at  Andover  was  be 
fore  his  eyes — and  he  knew  intuitively  that  he  had 
been  wrong  again.  This  man's  strength,  his  rest, 


252  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

was  the  protection  of  his  family.  He  had  more  use 
for  his  seat  in  the  street-car  than  any  young  girl. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Samuel  gruffly.  "Don't 
touch  him.  I've  been  a  damn  fool." 

Of  course  it  took  more  than  an  hour,  or  a  week, 
for  Samuel  to  rearrange  his  ideas  on  the  essential 
importance  of  good  form.  At  first  he  simply  ad 
mitted  that  his  wrongness  had  made  him  power 
less — as  it  had  made  him  powerless  against  Gilly — 
but  eventually  his  mistake  about  the  workman  in 
fluenced  his  entire  attitude.  Snobbishness  is,  after 
all,  merely  good  breeding  grown  dictatorial;  so 
Samuel's  code  remained,  but  the  necessity  of  im 
posing  it  upon  others  had  faded  out  in  a  certain 
gutter.  Within  that  year  his  class  had  somehow 
stopped  referring  to  him  as  a  snob. 

Ill 

After  a  few  years  Samuel's  university  decided 
that  it  had  shone  long  enough  in  the  reflected  glory 
of  his  neckties,  so  they  declaimed  to  him  in  Latin, 
charged  him  ten  dollars  for  the  paper  which  proved 
him  irretrievably  educated,  and  sent  him  into  the 
turmoil  with  much  self-confidence,  a  few  friends, 
and  the  proper  assortment  of  harmless  bad  habits. 

His  family  had  by  that  time  started  back  to  shirt 
sleeves,  through  a  sudden  decline  in  the  sugar- 
market,  and  it  had  already  unbuttoned  its  vest,  so 
to  speak,  when  Samuel  went  to  work.  His  mind 
was  that  exquisite  tabula  rasa  that  a  university  edu- 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  253 

cation  sometimes  leaves,  but  he  had  both  energy 
and  influence,  so  he  used  his  former  ability  as  a 
dodging  half-back  in  twisting  through  Wall  Street 
crowds  as  runner  for  a  bank. 

His  diversion  was — women.  There  were  half  a 
dozen:  two  or  three  debutantes,  an  actress  (in  a 
minor  way),  a  grass- widow,  and  one  sentimental 
little  brunette  who  was  married  and  lived  in  a  little 
house  in  Jersey  City. 

They  had  met  on  a  ferry-boat.  Samuel  was 
crossing  from  New  York  on  business  (he  had  been 
working  several  years  by  this  time)  and  he  helped 
her  look  for  a  package  that  she  had  dropped  in  the 
crush. 

"Do  you  come  over  often?"  he  inquired  casually. 

"Just  to  shop,"  she  said  shyly.  She  had  great 
brown  eyes  and  the  pathetic  kind  of  little  mouth. 
"I've  only  been  married  three  months,  and  we  find 
it  cheaper  to  live  over  here." 

"Does  he — does  your  husband  like  your  being 
alone  like  this?" 

She  laughed,  a  cheery  young  laugh. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no.  We  were  to  meet  for  dinner 
but  I  must  have  misunderstood  the  place.  He'll  be 
awfully  worried." 

"Well,"  said  Samuel  disapprovingly,  "he  ought 
to  be.  If  you'll  allow  me  I'll  see  you  home." 

She  accepted  his  offer  thankfully,  so  they  took 
the  cable-car  together.  When  they  walked  up  the 
path  to  her  little  house  they  saw  a  light  there;  her 
husband  had  arrived  before  her. 


254          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

"He's  frightfully  jealous,"  she  announced,  laugh 
ingly  apologetic. 

"Very  well,"  answered  Samuel,  rather  stiffly. 
"I'd  better  leave  you  here." 

She  thanked  him  and,  waving  a  good  night,  he 
left  her. 

That  would  have  been  quite  all  if  they  hadn't 
met  on  Fifth  Avenue  one  morning  a  week  later. 
She  started  and  blushed  and  seemed  so  glad  to  see 
him  that  they  chatted  like  old  friends.  She  was 
going  to  her  dressmaker's,  eat  lunch  alone  at  Taine's, 
shop  all  afternoon,  and  meet  her  husband  on  the 
ferry  at  five.  Samuel  told  her  that  her  husband 
was  a  very  lucky  man.  She  blushed  again  and 
scurried  off. 

Samuel  whistled  all  the  way  back  to  his  office, 
but  about  twelve  o'clock  he  began  to  see  that  pa 
thetic,  appealing  little  mouth  everywhere — and 
those  brown  eyes.  He  fidgeted  when  he  looked  at 
the  clock;  he  thought  of  the  grill  down-stairs  where 
he  lunched  and  the  heavy  male  conversation  thereof, 
and  opposed  to  that  picture  appeared  another:  a 
little  table  at  Taine's  with  the  brown  eyes  and  the 
mouth  a  few  feet  away.  A  few  minutes  before 
twelve-thirty  he  dashed  on  his  hat  and  rushed  for 
the  cable-car. 

She  was  quite  surprised  to  see  him. 

"Why — hello,"  she  said.  Samuel  could  tell  that 
she  was  just  pleasantly  frightened. 

"I  thought  we  might  lunch  together.  It's  so  dull 
eating  with  a  lot  of  men." 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  255 

She  hesitated. 

"Why,  I  suppose  there's  no  harm  in  it.  How 
could  there  be!" 

It  occurred  to  her  that  her  husband  should  have 
taken  lunch  with  her — but  he  was  generally  so  hur 
ried  at  noon.  She  told  Samuel  all  about  him:  he 
was  a  little  smaller  than  Samuel,  but,  oh,  much 
better-looking.  He  was  a  bookkeeper  and  not 
making  a  lot  of  money,  but  they  were  very  happy 
and  expected  to  be  rich  within  three  or  four  years. 

Samuel's  grass-widow  had  been  in  a  quarrelsome 
mood  for  three  or  four  weeks,  and,  through  contrast, 
he  took  an  accentuated  pleasure  in  this  meeting; 
so  fresh  was  she,  and  earnest,  and  faintly  adven 
turous.  Her  name  was  Marjorie. 

They  made  another  engagement;  in  fact,  for  a 
month  they  lunched  together  two  or  three  times  a 
week.  When  she  was  sure  that  her  husband  would 
work  late  Samuel  took  her  over  to  New  Jersey  on 
the  ferry,  leaving  her  always  on  the  tiny  front 
porch,  after  she  had  gone  in  and  lit  the  gas  to  use  the 
security  of  his  masculine  presence  outside.  This 
grew  to  be  a  ceremony — and  it  annoyed  him. 
Whenever  the  comfortable  glow  fell  out  through  the 
front  windows,  that  was  his  conge;  yet  he  never 
suggested  coming  in  and  Marjorie  didn't  invite  him. 

Then,  when  Samuel  and  Marjorie  had  reached  a 
stage  in  which  they  sometimes  touched  each  other's 
arms  gently,  just  to  show  that  they  were  very  good 
friends,  Marjorie  and  her  husband  had  one  of  those 
ultrasensitive,  supercritical  quarrels  that  couples 


256  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

never  indulge  in  unless  they  care  a  great  deal  about 
each  other.  It  started  with  a  cold  mutton-chop  or 
a  leak  in  the  gas-jet — and  one  day  Samuel  found  her 
in  Taine's,  with  dark  shadows  under  her  brown  eyes 
and  a  terrifying  pout. 

By  this  time  Samuel  thought  he  was  in  love  with 
Marjorie — so  he  played  up  the  quarrel  for  all  it  was 
worth.  He  was  her  best  friend  and  patted  her  hand 
— and  leaned  down  close  to  her  brown  curls  while 
she  whispered  in  little  sobs  what  her  husband  had 
said  that  morning;  and  he  was  a  little  more  than  her 
best  friend  when  he  took  her  over  to  the  ferry  in  a 
hansom. 

"Marjorie,"  he  said  gently,  when  he  left  her,  as 
usual,  on  the  porch,  "if  at  any  time  you  want  to 
call  on  me,  remember  that  I  am  always  waiting, 
always  waiting." 

She  nodded  gravely  and  put  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "I  know  you're  my  friend, 
my  best  friend." 

Then  she  ran  into  the  house  and  he  watched  there 
until  the  gas  went  on. 

For  the  next  week  Samuel  was  in  a  nervous  tur 
moil.  Some  persistently  rational  strain  warned  him 
that  at  bottom  he  and  Marjorie  had  little  in  common, 
but  in  such  cases  there  is  usually  so  much  mud  in 
the  water  that  one  can  seldom  see  to  the  bottom. 
Every  dream  and  desire  told  him  that  he  loved  Mar 
jorie,  wanted  her,  had  to  have  her. 

The  quarrel  developed.  Marjorie's  husband  took 
to  staying  in  New  York  until  late  at  night,  came  home 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  257 

several  times  disagreeably  overs timulated,  and  made 
her  generally  miserable.  They  must  have  had  too 
much  pride  to  talk  it  out — for  Marjorie's  husband 
was,  after  all,  pretty  decent — so  it  drifted  on  from 
one  misunderstanding  to  another.  Marjorie  kept 
coming  more  and  more  to  Samuel;  when  a  woman 
can  accept  masculine  sympathy  it  is  much  more 
satisfactory  to  her  than  crying  to  another  girl. 
But  Marjorie  didn't  realize  how  much  she  had  be 
gun  to  rely  on  him,  how  much  he  was  part  of  her 
little  cosmos. 

One  night,  instead  of  turning  away  when  Mar 
jorie  went  in  and  lit  the  gas,  Samuel  went  in,  too, 
and  they  sat  together  on  the  sofa  in  the  little  parlor. 
He  was  very  happy.  He  envied  their  home,  and 
he  felt  that  the  man  who  neglected  such  a  posses 
sion  out  of  stubborn  pride  was  a  fool  and  unworthy 
of  his  wife.  But  when  he  kissed  Marjorie  for  the 
first  time  she  cried  softly  and  told  him  to  go.  He 
sailed  home  on  the  wings  of  desperate  excitement, 
quite  resolved  to  fan  this  spark  of  romance,  no  mat 
ter  how  big  the  blaze  or  who  was  burned.  At  the 
time  he  considered  that  his  thoughts  were  unselfishly 
of  her;  in  a  later  perspective  he  knew  that  she  had 
meant  no  more  than  the  white  screen  in  a  motion 
picture:  it  was  just  Samuel — blind,  desirous. 

Next  day  at  Taine's,  when  they  met  for  lunch, 
Samuel  dropped  all  pretense  and  made  frank  love 
to  her.  He  had  no  plans,  no  definite  intentions, 
except  to  kiss  her  lips  again,  to  hold  her  in  his  arms 
and  feel  that  she  was  very  little  and  pathetic  and 


258  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

lovable.  .  .  .  He  took  her  home,  and  this  time 
they  kissed  until  both  their  hearts  beat  high — words 
and  phrases  formed  on  his  lips. 

And  then  suddenly  there  were  steps  on  the  porch 
—a  hand  tried  the  outside  door.  Marjorie  turned 
dead-white. 

"  Wait !"  she  whispered  to  Samuel,  in  a  frightened 
voice,  but  in  angry  impatience  at  the  interruption 
he  walked  to  the  front  door  and  threw  it  open. 

Every  one  has  seen  such  scenes  on  the  stage — 
seen  them  so  often  that  when  they  actually  happen 
people  behave  very  much  like  actors.  Samuel  felt 
that  he  was  playing  a  part  and  the  lines  came  quite 
naturally:  he  announced  that  all  had  a  right  to  lead 
their  own  lives  and  looked  at  Marjorie's  husband 
menacingly,  as  if  daring  him  to  doubt  it.  Mar- 
jorie's  husband  spoke  of  the  sanctity  of  the  home, 
forgetting  that  it  hadn't  seemed  very  holy  to  him 
lately;  Samuel  continued  along  the  line  of  "the 
right  to  happiness";  Marjorie's  husband  mentioned 
firearms  and  the  divorce  court.  Then  suddenly  he 
stopped  and  scrutinized  both  of  them — Marjorie  in 
pitiful  collapse  on  the  sofa,  Samuel  haranguing  the 
furniture  in  a  consciously  heroic  pose. 

"Go  up-stairs,  Marjorie,"  he  said,  in  a  different 
tone. 

"Stay  where  you  are !"  Samuel  countered  quickly. 

Marjorie  rose,  wavered,  and  sat  down,  rose  again 
and  moved  hesitatingly  toward  the  stairs. 

"Come  outside,"  said  her  husband  to  Samuel. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you." 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  259 

Samuel  glanced  at  Marjorie,  tried  to  get  some 
message  from  her  eyes;  then  he  shut  his  lips  and 
went  out. 

There  was  a  bright  moon  and  when  Marjorie's 
husband  came  down  the  steps  Samuel  could  see 
plainly  that  he  was  suffering — but  he  felt  no  pity  for 
him. 

They  stood  and  looked  at  each  other,  a  few  feet 
apart,  and  the  husband  cleared  his  throat  as  though 
it  were  a  bit  husky. 

" That's  my  wife,"  he  said  quietly,  and  then  a 
wild  anger  surged  up  inside  him.  "Damn  you!" 
he  cried — and  hit  Samuel  in  the  face  with  all  his 
strength. 

In  that  second,  as  Samuel  slumped  to  the  ground, 
it  flashed  to  him  that  he  had  been  hit  like  that  twice 
before,  and  simultaneously  the  incident  altered  like 
a  dream — he  felt  suddenly  awake.  Mechanically 
he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  squared  off.  The  other 
man  was  waiting,  fists  up,  a  yard  away,  but  Samuel 
knew  that  though  physically  he  had  him  by  several 
inches  and  many  pounds,  he  wouldn't  hit  him.  The 
situation  had  miraculously  and  entirely  changed — a 
moment  before  Samuel  had  seemed  to  himself  heroic; 
now  he  seemed  the  cad,  the  outsider,  and  Marjorie's 
husband,  silhouetted  against  the  lights  of  the  little 
house,  the  eternal  heroic  figure,  the  defender  of  his 
home. 

There  was  a  pause  and  then  Samuel  turned  quickly 
away  and  went  down  the  path  for  the  last  time. 


260          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

IV 

Of  course,  after  the  third  blow  Samuel  put  in 
several  weeks  at  conscientious  introspection.  The 
blow  years  before  at  Andover  had  landed  on  his 
personal  unpleasantness;  the  workman  of  his  col 
lege  days  had  jarred  the  snobbishness  out  of  his 
system,  and  Marjorie's  husband  had  given  a  severe 
jolt  to  his  greedy  selfishness.  It  threw  women  out 
of  his  ken  until  a  year  later,  when  he  met  his  future 
wife;  for  the  only  sort  of  woman  worth  while  seemed 
to  be  the  one  who  could  be  protected  as  Marjorie's 
husband  had  protected  her.  Samuel  could  not  im 
agine  his  grass-widow,  Mrs.  De  Ferriac,  causing  any- 
very  righteous  blows  on  her  own  account. 

His  early  thirties  found  him  well  on  his  feet.  He 
was  associated  with  old  Peter  Carhart,  who  was  in 
those  days  a  national  figure.  Carhart's  physique 
was  like  a  rough  model  for  a  statue  of  Hercules,  and 
his  record  was  just  as  solid — a  pile  made  for  the 
pure  joy  of  it,  without  cheap  extortion  or  shady 
scandal.  He  had  been  a  great  friend  of  SamueFs 
father,  but  he  watched  the  son  for  six  years  before 
taking  him  into  his  own  office.  Heaven  knows  how 
many  things  he  controlled  at  that  time — mines, 
railroads,  banks,  whole  cities.  Samuel  was  very  close 
to  him,  knew  his  likes  and  dislikes,  his  prejudices, 
weaknesses  and  many  strengths. 

One  day  Carhart  sent  for  Samuel  and,  closing  the 
door  of  his  inner  office,  offered  him  a  chair  and  a 
cigar. 


THE  FOUR   FISTS  261 

"Everything  O.  K.,  Samuel?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  yes." 

"I've  been  afraid  you're  getting  a  bit  stale." 

"  Stale  ?  "    Samuel  was  puzzled. 

"You've  done  no  work  outside  the  office  for  nearly 
ten  years?" 

"But  I've  had  vacations,  in  the  Adiron " 

Carhart  waved  this  aside. 

"I  mean  outside  work.  Seeing  the  things  move 
that  we've  always  pulled  the  strings  of  here." 

"No,"  admitted  Samuel;  "I  haven't." 

"So,"  he  said  abruptly,  "I'm  going  to  give  you 
an  outside  job  that'll  take  about  a  month." 

•  Samuel  didn't  argue.  He  rather  liked  the  idea 
and  he  made  up  his  mind  that,  whatever  it  was,  he 
would  put  it  through  just  as  Carhart  wanted  it. 
That  was  his  employer's  greatest  hobby,  and  the 
men  around  him  were  as  dumb  under  direct  orders 
as  infantry  subalterns. 

"You'll  go  to  San  Antonio  and  see  Hamil,"  con 
tinued  Carhart.  "He's  got  a  job  on  hand  and  he 
wants  a  man  to  take  charge." 

Hamil  was  in  charge  of  the  Carhart  interests  in 
the  Southwest,  a  man  who  had  grown  up  in  the 
shadow  of  his  employer,  and  with  whom,  though 
they  had  never  met,  Samuel  had  had  much  official 
correspondence. 

"When  do  I  leave?" 

"You'd  better  go  to-morrow,"  answered  Carhart, 
glancing  at  the  calendar.  "That's  the  ist  of  May. 
I'll  expect  your  report  here  on  the  ist  of  June." 


262  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Next  morning  Samuel  left  for  Chicago,  and  two 
days  later  he  was  facing  Hamil  across  a  table  in  the 
office  of  the  Merchants'  Trust  in  San  Antonio.  It 
didn't  take  long  to  get  the  gist  of  the  thing.  It  was 
a  big  deal  in  oil  which  concerned  the  buying  up  of 
seventeen  huge  adjoining  ranches.  This  buying  up 
had  to  be  done  in  one  week,  and  it  was  a  pure 
squeeze.  Forces  had  been  set  in  motion  that  put 
the  seventeen  owners  between  the  devil  and  the 
deep  sea,  and  Samuel's  part  was  simply  to  "handle" 
the  matter  from  a  little  village  near  Pueblo.  With 
tact  and  efficiency  the  right  man  could  bring  it  off 
without  any  friction,  for  it  was  merely  a  question  of 
sitting  at  the  wheel  and  keeping  a  firm  hold.  Hamil, 
with  an  astuteness  many  times  valuable  to  his  chief, 
had  arranged  a  situation  that  would  give  a  much 
greater  clear  gain  than  any  dealing  in  the  open 
market.  Samuel  shook  hands  with  Hamil,  arranged 
to  return  in  two  weeks,  and  left  for  San  Felipe,  New 
Mexico. 

It  occurred  to  him,  of  course,  that  Carhart  was 
trying  him  out.  Hamil's  report  on  his  handling 
of  this  might  be  a  factor  in  something  big  for  him, 
but  even  without  that  he  would  have  done  his  best 
to  put  the  thing  through.  Ten  years  in  New  York 
hadn't  made  him  sentimental,  and  he  was  quite  ac 
customed  to  finish  everything  he  began — and  a  little 
bit  more. 

All  went  well  at  first.  There  was  no  enthusiasm, 
but  each  one  of  the  seventeen  ranchers  concerned 
knew  Samuel's  business,  knew  what  he  had  behind 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  263 

him,  and  chat  they  had  as  little  chance  of  holding 
out  as  fhYs  on  a  window-pane.  Some  of  them  were 
resigned — some  of  them  cared  like  the  devil,  but 
they'd  talked  it  over,  argued  it  with  lawyers  and 
couldn't  see  any  possible  loophole.  Five  of  the 
ranches  had  oil,  the  other  twelve  were  part  of  the 
chance,  but  quite  as  necessary  to  HamiTs  purpose, 
in  any  event. 

Samuel  soon  saw  that  the  real  leader  was  an  early 
settler  named  Mclntyre,  a  man  of  perhaps  fifty, 
gray-haired,  clean-shaven,  bronzed  by  forty  New 
Mexico  summers,  and  with  those  clear,  steady  eyes 
that  Texas  and  New  Mexico  weather  are  apt  to 
give.  His  ranch  had  not  as  yet  shown  oil,  but  it 
was  in  the  pool,  and  if  any  man  hated  to  lose  his 
land  Mclntyre  did.  Every  one  had  rather  looked 
to  him  at  first  to  avert  the  big  calamity,  and  he  had 
hunted  all  over  the  territory  for  the  legal  means 
with  which  to  do  it,  but  he  had  failed,  and  he  knew 
it.  He  avoided  Samuel  assiduously,  but  Samuel 
was  sure  that  when  the  day  came  for  the  signatures 
he  would  appear. 

It  came — a  baking  May  day,  with  hot  waves  ris 
ing  off  the  parched  land  as  far  as  eyes  could  see, 
and  as  Samuel  sat  stewing  in  his  little  improvised 
office — a  few  chairs,  a  bench,  and  a  wooden  table — 
he  was  glad  the  thing  was  almost  over.  He  wanted 
to  get  back  East  the  worst  way,  and  join  his  wife 
and  children  for  a  week  at  the  seashore. 

The  meeting  was  set  for  four  o'clock,  and  he  was 
rather  surprised  at  three-thirty  when  the  door 


264  FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHER  > 

opened  and  Mclntyre  came  in.  Samuel'  :ould  not 
help  respecting  the  man's  attitude,  and  feeling  a 
bit  sorry  for  him.  Mclntyre  seemed  closely  related 
to  the  prairies,  and  Samuel  had  the  little  flicker  of 
envy  that  city  people  feel  toward  men  who  live  in 
the  open. 

"Afternoon,"  said  Mclntyre,  standing  in  the 
open  doorway,  with  his  feet  apart  and  his  hands  on 
his  hips. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Mclntyre."  Samuel  rose,  but  omit 
ted  the  formality  of  offering  his  hand.  He  im 
agined  the  rancher  cordially  loathed  him,  and  he 
hardly  blamed  him.  Mclntyre  came  in  and  sat 
down  leisurely. 

"You  got  us,"  he  said  suddenly. 

This  didn't  seem  to  require  any  answer. 

"When  I  heard  Carhart  was  back  of  this,"  he 
continued,  "I  gave  up." 

"Mr.  Carhart  is — "  began  Samuel,  but  Mclntyre 
waved  him  silent. 

"Don't  talk  about  the  dirty  sneak-thief!" 

"Mr.  Mclntyre,"  said  Samuel  briskly,  "if  this 
half-hour  is  to  be  devoted  to  that  sort  of  talk — 

"Oh,  dry  up,  young  man,"  Mclntyre  interrupted, 
"you  can't  abuse  a  man  who'd  do  a  thing  like  this." 

Samuel  made  no  answer. 

"It's  simply  a  dirty  filch.  There  just  are  skunks 
like  him  too  big  to  handle." 

"You're  being  paid  liberally,"  offered  Samuel. 

"Shut  up !"  roared  Mclntyre  suddenly.  "I  want 
the  privilege  of  talking."  He  walked  to  the  door 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  265 

and  looked  out  across  the  land,  the  sunny,  steaming 
pasturage  that  began  almost  at  his  feet  and  ended 
with  the  gray-green  of  the  distant  mountains. 
When  he  turned  around  his  mouth  was  trembling. 

"Do  you  fellows  love  Wall  Street?"  he  said 
hoarsely,  "or  wherever  you  do  your  dirty  schem 
ing—  He  paused.  "I  suppose  you  do.  No  crit 
ter  gets  so  low  that  he  doesn't  sort  of  love  the  place 
he's  worked,  where  he's  sweated  out  the  best  he's 
had  in  him." 

Samuel  watched  him  awkwardly.  Mclntyre  wiped 
his  forehead  with  a  huge  blue  handkerchief,  and  con 
tinued  : 

"I  reckon  this  rotten  old  devil  had  to  have  an 
other  million.  I  reckon  we're  just  a  few  of  the  poor 
beggars  he's  blotted  out  to  buy  a  couple  more  car 
riages  or  something."  He  waved  his  hand  toward 
the  door.  "I  built  a  house  out  there  when  I  was 
seventeen,  with  these  two  hands.  I  took  a  wife 
there  at  twenty-one,  added  two  wings,  and  with  four 
mangy  steers  I  started  out.  Forty  summers  I've 
saw  the  sun  come  up  over  those  mountains  and  drop 
down  red  as  blood  in  the  evening,  before  the  heat 
drifted  off  and  the  stars  came  out.  I  been  happy  in 
that  house.  My  boy  was  born  there  and  he  died 
there,  late  one  spring,  in  the  hottest  part  of  an  after 
noon  like  this.  Then  the  wife  and  I  lived  there 
alone  like  we'd  lived  before,  and  sort  of  tried  to  have 
a  home,  after  all,  not  a  real  home  but  nigh  it — cause 
the  boy  always  seemed  around  close,  somehow,  and 
we  expected  a  lot  of  nights  to  see  him  runnin'  up 


266          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

the  path  to  supper/'  His  voice  was  shaking  so  he 
could  hardly  speak  and  he  turned  again  to  the  door, 
his  gray  eyes  contracted. 

"That's  my  land  out  there,"  he  said,  stretching  out 
his  arm,  "my  land,  by  God —  It's  all  I  got  in  the 
world — and  ever  wanted."  He  dashed  his  sleeve 
across  his  face,  and  his  tone  changed  as  he  turned 
slowly  and  faced  Samuel.  "But  I  suppose  it's  got 
to  go  when  they  want  it — it's  got  to  go." 

Samuel  had  to  talk.  He  felt  that  in  a  minute 
more  he  would  lose  his  head.  So  he  began,  as  level- 
voiced  as  he  could — in  the  sort  of  tone  he  saved  for 
disagreeable  duties. 

"It's  business,  Mr.  Mclntyre,"  he  said;  "it's  in 
side  the  law.  Perhaps  we  couldn't  have  bought 
out  two  or  three  of  you  at  any  price,  but  most  of 
you  did  have  a  price.  Progress  demands  some 
things " 

Never  had  he  felt  so  inadequate,  and  it  was  with 
the  greatest  relief  that  he  heard  hoof-beats  a  few 
hundred  yards  away. 

But  at  his  words  the  grief  in  Mclntyre's  eyes  had 
changed  to  fury. 

"You  and  your  dirty  gang  of  crooks!"  he  cried. 
"Not  one  of  you  has  got  an  honest  love  for  any 
thing  on  God's  earth!  You're  a  herd  of  money- 
swine!" 

Samuel  rose  and  Mclntyre  took  a  step  toward 
him. 

"You  long-winded  dude.  You  got  our  land — 
take  that  for  Peter  Carhart!" 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  267 

He  swung  from  the  shoulder  quick  as  lightning 
and  down  went  Samuel  in  a  heap.  Dimly  he  heard 
steps  hi  the  doorway  and  knew  that  some  one  was 
holding  Mclntyre,  but  there  was  no  need.  The 
rancher  had  sunk  down  in  his  chair,  and  dropped  his 
head  in  his  hands. 

Samuel's  brain  was  whirring.  He  realized  that 
the  fourth  fist  had  hit  him,  and  a  great  flood  of  emo 
tion  cried  out  that  the  law  that  had  inexorably 
ruled  his  life  was  in  motion  again.  In  a  half -daze  he 
got  up  and  strode  from  the  room. 

The  next  ten  minutes  were  perhaps  the  hardest  of 
his  life.  People  talk  of  the  courage  of  convictions, 
but  in  actual  Me  a  man's  duty  to  his  family  may 
make  a  rigid  course  seem  a  selfish  indulgence  of  his 
own  righteousness.  Samuel  thought  mostly  of  his 
family,  yet  he  never  really  wavered.  That  jolt  had 
brought  him  to. 

When  he  came  back  hi  the  room  there  were  a  lot 
of  worried  faces  waiting  for  him,  but  he  didn't 
waste  any  time  explaining. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "Mr.  Mclntyre  has  been 
kind  enough  to  convince  me  that  in  this  matter  you 
are  absolutely  right,  and  the  Peter  Carhart  interests 
absolutely  wrong.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned  you 
can  keep  your  ranches  to  the  rest  of  your  days." 

He  pushed  his  way  through  an  astounded  gather 
ing,  and  within  a  half-hour  he  had  sent  two  tele 
grams  that  staggered  the  operator  into  complete 
unfitness  for  business;  one  was  to  Hamil  in  San 
Antonio;  one  was  to  Peter  Carhart  hi  New  York. 


268          FLAPPERS  AND  PHILOSOPHERS 

Samuel  didn't  sleep  much  that  night.  He  knew 
that  for  the  first  time  in  his  business  career  he  had 
made  a  dismal,  miserable  failure.  But  some  in 
stinct  in  him,  stronger  than  will,  deeper  than  train 
ing,  had  forced  him  to  do  what  would  probably  end 
his  ambitions  and  his  happiness.  But  it  was  done 
and  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  have 
acted  otherwise. 

Next  morning  two  telegrams  were  waiting  for 
him.  The  first  was  from  Hamil.  It  contained  three 
words: 

"You  blamed  idiot!" 

The  second  was  from  New  York: 

"Deal  off  come  to  New  York  immediately  Car- 
hart." 

Within  a  week  things  had  happened.  Hamil 
quarrelled  furiously  and  violently  defended  his 
scheme.  He  was  summoned  to  New  York,  and  spent 
a  bad  half -hour  on  the  carpet  in  Peter  Carhart's 
office.  He  broke  with  the  Carhart  interests  in 
July,  and  in  August  Samuel  Meredith,  at  thirty- 
rive  years  old,  was,  to  all  intents,  made  Carhart's 
partner.  The  fourth  fist  had  done  its  work. 

I  suppose  that  there's  a  caddish  streak  in  every 
man  that  runs  crosswise  across  his  character  and  dis 
position  and  general  outlook.  With  some  men  it's 
secret  and  we  never  know  it's  there  until  they  strike 
us  in  the  dark  one  night.  But  Samuel's  showed 
when  it  was  in  action,  and  the  sight  of  it  made  people 


THE  FOUR  FISTS  269 

see  red.  He  was  rather  lucky  in  that,  because  every 
time  his  little  devil  came  up  it  met  a  reception  that 
sent  it  scurrying  down  below  in  a  sickly,  feeble  con 
dition.  It  was  the  same  devil,  the  same  streak  that 
made  him  order  Gilly's  friends  off  the  bed,  that 
made  him  go  inside  Marjorie's  house. 

If  you  could  run  your  hand  along  Samuel  Mere 
dith's  jaw  you'd  feel  a  lump.  He  admits  he's  never 
been  sure  which  fist  left  it  there,  but  he  wouldn't 
lose  it  for  anything.  He  says  there's  no  cad  like  an 
old  cad,  and  that  sometimes  just  before  making  a 
decision,  it's  a  great  help  to  stroke  his  chin.  The 
reporters  call  it  a  nervous  characteristic,  but  it's 
not  that.  It's  so  he  can  feel  again  the  gorgeous  clar 
ity,  the  lightning  sanity  of  those  four  fists. 


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